The chamber beneath the Arass manor existed in a state of permanent suffering.
Not just the suffering of its occupants, though that was ever present, a constant hum of agony that had become as much a part of the room's character as the stone walls and iron chains. No, the chamber itself seemed to suffer. The air was thick and reluctant, as if it resented being breathed. The stone sweated moisture that was never quite water, a clammy film that clung to everything and smelled faintly of copper and despair. The purple-flamed candles, set at precise intervals around the room's perimeter, cast light that seemed to move with deliberate malice, finding the worst angles, the deepest wounds, the most horrific details, and illuminating them with theatrical cruelty.
