The dungeons beneath the palace were older than the empire itself.
Stone walls slick with centuries of moisture, iron bars rusted but still strong, the smell of decay and despair so thick it was almost tangible. This was where the empire sent people it wanted to forget—traitors, assassins, those who'd committed crimes so heinous that execution would be mercy.
Now it held fourteen noble families.
I descended the spiral stairs with Darius at my side, Ethan trailing behind. The torchlight cast our shadows long and distorted against the walls, making us look like giants come to pass judgment.
Which, I supposed, we were.
"The youngest broke within an hour," Ethan reported, his voice echoing in the confined space. "Lord Vestian's son, barely eighteen. Confirmed everything in Aeric's journal and added details we didn't have—meeting locations, code phrases, the name of their contact in the Eastern Kingdoms."
