The dungeon of Cumoreen reeked of rot. Water dripped through the ceiling in slow, cruel rhythms. Somewhere in the dark, chains rattled and someone groaned. A constant reminder that mercy did not exist here.
Glacy’s bare feet made no sound on the stones as she descended the steps, a basket of food in one hand, a flask hidden beneath her rags in the other. Her tattered dress hung loose, torn at the seams, caked with grime. To the guards, she was a servant werewolf girl who cleaned up after the Basilisks’. No one paused to see the mischief that sat like a sharpened pebble in her pink eyes.
She stopped before his cell.
Ligon sat in the corner, half-shadowed, his wrists shackled, his silver hair matted with blood. The darkness clung to him like a living thing. His emerald eyes flicked toward
