Amara
The dungeons of Silverfell were always cold, but this morning, they felt colder still.
I stood at the edge of the cell corridor, my breath curling into the air, Lucian’s cloak wrapped tightly around my shoulders. The scent of damp stone and iron mingled with something fouler—betrayal, old and festering. Daniel was chained in the last cell, his once-proud shoulders slumped, his eyes sunken and wild.
He didn’t look like the man who had greeted me with polite smiles when I first arrived at the castle. He looked like a ghost that hadn’t realized he was dead.
Lucian stood beside me, silent, unreadable. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the muscle in his jaw flexed with every second he looked at Daniel.
“Is he saying anything?” I asked Idris, who emerged from the shadows near
