TOBY
The stench of blood and damp stone hit me first. Down here, the air was heavier, as if the walls themselves carried every scream and every secret that had ever been buried in the Everdale dungeons.
But even that didn’t compare to the sight in front of us.
Mason.
He was strapped to a wooden chair with cords biting deep into his wrists and chest. His head was hanging forward, hair matted to his face with sweat and dried blood. He didn’t even lift it when we stopped in front of him. For a moment, I wondered if we were too late—that maybe he was just another corpse the dungeon guards forgot to dispose of.
Then he groaned, low and hoarse, and slowly raised his head.
“Well,” he rasped, forcing a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, “if it isn’t the Everdale princes. Come to watch me rot?
