The air in the subterranean bunker was thick with the smell of damp concrete and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone emanating from the alchemical dampeners hidden in the walls. Liam Livingston sat in the corner of the iron cage, his eyes half-closed, appearing to the world as nothing more than a terrified hostage. In reality, his mind was a cold, calculating machine, analyzing the energy signatures of their captors.
The Iron Syndicate, Liam thought, the name echoing with a dark history. A collective of rogue Practitioners who operate outside the laws of the High Council of Ten. This isn't a simple k********g.
Wayne Wolfe, the high-ranking lieutenant of the Syndicate, paced the room with the predatory grace of a wolf. He stopped in front of the cages, his gaze sweeping over Liam and Lance
