The dungeon reeked of rot and despair. Water dripped somewhere far off, steady as a metronome, and every sound of it hammered at the minutes Owen and I didn’t have. Thirty at best, Maggie had said. The whistle had already bought us half that.
“Keep moving,” Owen hissed. His voice bounced against the walls, too sharp, too loud.
“Quiet,” I snapped, my nerves already strung tight. Ace clawed at the edges of me, restless, snarling, urging me forward.
“She has to be here. I can feel her…find her,” Ace urged. We moved fast down the narrow hall, and the torches' light flickered off the iron bars. Empty eyes stared back at us from some cells, prisoners curled in corners like shadows. Others pressed against bars, silent, as if they had forgotten what voices were for.
“Thorne?” a voice called o
