The stone floor in the deepest corridor of The Deep Root Cellar felt like frozen iron beneath Dayat's body as he was dragged forcefully by his shoulders. Gone were the honorary robes of platinum and silk; gone were the adoring cheers of the masses. In their place remained only the rhythmic, metallic clatter of chains against stone and the heavy, ragged breathing of the two Paladin guards gripping his shoulders with calloused hands. Dayat did not resist. It wasn't because he had surrendered his will, but because every single inch of his musculature felt as though it had been liquefied by the crushing pressure of the Iron-Root Constrictor Nets he had endured on the stage.
"Walk, you filth!" one of the guards barked, jerking Dayat's body so violently that his head slammed against the hard, petrified root wall.
