The cell smelled of damp stone and iron. Every breath Wren took felt as though it was scraping at her lungs with rust and cold, but she didn’t flinch. She sat on the floor, her back against the wall, the chains heavy on her wrists.
On the other side of the room, a lantern was burning low, its flame flickering within the warped glass. In that tenuous light, she could just make out Dorian—her brother—collapsed against his own restraints. His breathing was shallow, but it was steady.
A voice, low and velvety, broke the silence. “He’s still alive, as promised. His life… tethered to your obedience.”
The shadowed figure emerged from the darkness like a wraith brought to life, each of his movements slow, calculated, unhurried. Their mask caught the light of the lantern, smooth and expressionle
