Andrew strode into the large, damp dungeon, his boots echoing ominously off the stone walls. A foul stench of blood, sweat, and despair clung to the air, thick and suffocating.
His prisoners are werewolves that he had captured few months ago stirred as he approached, their chains clanking noisily against the cold metal bars. Among them were Fang’s three friends, their bodies bruised, spirits battered, but their eyes still burning with defiance.
As Andrew walked by, they growled low in their throats, straining against their bonds, desperate for freedom. Their snarls filled the room, pleading, threatening, yet Andrew remained unmoved. His face was emotionless, carved from stone, his eyes cold and unfeeling.
Without sparing them more than a glance, he continued toward the last cell at the
