Elara
The dungeon swallowed sound.
Each step I took echoed, bouncing against the damp stone walls like a whisper stretched too thin. The air was cold, heavy with the stench of mold and rust, so sharp it burned the back of my throat. My cloak brushed against my legs as I moved, the rough wool scratching my skin, grounding me in the darkness.
I carried no torch. Only the faint blue glow of the moonlight dripping through cracks in the ceiling guided me, leaving broken beams across the wet stone floor. They looked like scars silver scars carved by the night itself.
The silence was alive. I could hear it breathing, feel it pressing against my ears. Drip. Drip. Drip. Somewhere, water trickled endlessly, each drop hitting stone like the ticking of a cruel clock.
And then I heard her.
Isabel
