The iron door didn’t slam; it swung open with the heavy, deliberate weight that defined everything Jaxon did.
The torch he carried was small, a mere splinter of pine dipped in tallow, but in the absolute velvet of the lower cisterns, it tore through the dark like a blade. The orange light spilled across the wet flagstones, dancing over the oily film of the rising water. Jaxon stepped into the cell, his massive frame instantly drinking up the available air, his heavy wolf-pelt cloak dragging along the weeping masonry.
In his left hand, he held a wooden ladle and a small clay bowl containing less than three inches of gray, unsalted barley gruel. It was a dog’s ration, the precise weight Silas had mandated for the uncooperative.
Selene didn't flinch from the light. She sat on the dry stone
