The dungeon of the Blackfang Stronghold was a place where hope went to die. Deep beneath the frost-covered stone of the main fortress, the air was thick with the smell of damp earth, rusted iron, and the metallic tang of blood. Torchlight flickered against the weeping walls, casting long, distorted shadows that looked like vengeful ghosts.
In the center of the interrogation chamber, suspended from the ceiling by heavy, silver-etched chains, hung Kaelen of the Crimsonfang.
His silver armor had been stripped away, leaving his torso bare and crisscrossed with fresh, jagged wounds. But the blood that dripped onto the stone floor wasn't red; it was a luminous, ethereal silver that hissed when it touched the ground. Despite the agony, despite the weight of the iron shackles burning into his wrists, Kaelen's head remained unbowed.
The heavy iron door groaned open, and Lucien stepped into the room.
