Isabella
The darkness presses on me like a living thing.
I sit on the cold, slimy stone floor, my hands bound in iron chains that cut into my wrists. The metal is heavy, digging deep until I feel the damp warmth of my own blood sliding down my palms. Every time I shift, the sound of the chain dragging across the stone grates in my ears like sharp teeth grinding bone.
The dungeon smells of rot and mold. The air is wet, thick, heavy. Each breath tastes of rust and dirt, as though the dungeon itself is forcing me to swallow its decay. My stomach twists, empty and hollow, yet I gag at the stink of urine and old death that lingers in the corners.
I close my eyes, but the darkness is no different with them open. My body trembles from the cold, every stone beneath me like ice biting my skin.
