Iron doors lined both sides of the narrow descent, many hanging partially rusted from their hinges, their wooden interiors rotted away to reveal empty cells beyond—some no larger than closets, others stretching back into darkness too deep for torchlight to penetrate. The dragging sound continued intermittently, closer now, the metal scraping against stone with a rhythm that seemed almost deliberate, almost purposeful, as though whatever made the noise was aware of their approach and responded to it.
Marcus's hand slowly moved toward the blade at his side, fingers wrapping around the worn leather grip. "This place wasn't on the prison maps."
"Because it predates the palace above it," one of the older guards muttered quietly, his voice uncomfortable in a way that suggested he was speaking of things he would rather not remember. "My grandfather used to talk about these lower chambers."
