The silence in the Mourning Manor basement was not merely a lack of sound. It was a heavy, suffocating pressure that seemed to draw the very warmth from the air. Deep beneath the foundation, far removed from the cold night wind and the lingering scent of battle, Gillian paced the length of the interrogation chamber. His hand, still wrapped in rough, stained bandages from the destruction of the tracking device, throbbed with a rhythmic, pulsing ache. Every beat of his heart felt like a reminder of the betrayal he had uncovered. Ghea sat on a cold, iron chair in the center of the room, her wrists bound loosely to the armrests, her gaze fixed on the damp stone of the floor.
Gillian stopped his pacing and loomed over her, his presence dominating the limited space. The flickering yellow ligh
