The air in the depths of the castle grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and burnt sage. Malphas could hear the rhythmic thrumming of drums echoing through the foundation, a pulse that vibrated deep within his marrow. He shifted his weight, testing the limits of his confinement. The iron collar pulsed in sync with the chanting outside, a constant, irritating reminder of the leash clamped around his throat.
"They are starting," he muttered, his fingers hovering over the jagged shard of glass hidden within the folds of his tunic. The edge was sharp enough to draw blood, a small comfort in a place designed to break his spirit.
He stood up, pacing the three paces his cell allowed. He needed to look broken. He needed to look like a man whose will had been systematically eroded by the los
