The crowd's roar faded into a dull hum as James, Ilyanna, and Merid made their way toward the Hollow Pit's exit. The heavy wooden doors loomed ahead, and the scent of fresh air mingled faintly with the thick tang of sweat and scorched dust from the arena.
That was when it came.
A sudden, icy breath of air brushed James's cheek—impossible in the stifling underground chamber. It was a wind that didn't belong here.
A whisper slid through it, so faint he almost thought it was his imagination:
"Help me…"
James froze mid-step. Ilyanna stopped too, her sharp gaze scanning their surroundings. "You heard it too?"
He nodded slowly.
Her eyes narrowed. "We're underground. No wind. That wasn't air—it was magic."
Before James could reply, it came again. A colder, sharper gust that carried a clearer message:
"Cellar…"
The voice was desperate. Pleading.
Merid, clutching her recovered heirloom, glanced between them nervously. "I… don't want to know what that was. Pepe needs medical attention. We're leaving."
James and Ilyanna exchanged a look. There was no discussion needed.
"Go," Ilyanna told Merid firmly. "We'll handle it."
Merid didn't argue. She and the staggering Pepe disappeared into the shadows of the exit corridor, leaving James and Ilyanna standing alone.
The Hollow Pit's back hallways were quieter now, only the occasional echo of drunken laughter drifting from distant rooms. They moved quickly, slipping past gambling tables and storerooms until they found a narrow, unmarked door near the edge of the arena wall.
James pressed his ear against it. Nothing—just the faint smell of mold and damp stone.
"This place reeks of trouble," Ilyanna muttered, pulling an arrow from her quiver—not to fire, but to use as a makeshift probe.
The door creaked as James pushed it open, revealing a steep staircase leading down into blackness.
They descended, the dim light from above fading until the world was swallowed by shadow. James lit a small oil lamp from his satchel, the flickering glow casting long, uneasy shapes on the stone walls.
The air grew colder with each step, heavy with the scent of rot and rusted iron.
At the bottom, the stairs spilled into a low, narrow corridor. Rusted chains hung from hooks in the walls, clinking softly in the draftless air.
"This isn't a wine cellar," James murmured.
"No," Ilyanna said quietly, her eyes scanning. "It's a dungeon."
They moved carefully, the lamp's light revealing doors of rotting wood reinforced with corroded bars. Most were empty cells, but each carried the lingering feel of despair—scratched walls, dried stains on the floor, and the faintest echo of past screams.
Then, as they passed one cell, another whisper stirred the air:
"Here…"
Ilyanna stopped dead, her bow already drawn with an arrow notched. The sound had come from deeper in the passage.
They pushed forward. The corridor narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. The air seemed thicker here, the weight of the underground pressing against them.
The next chamber they entered was different—a round room with a domed ceiling, lined with more cells. In the center stood a crude table splattered with dried blood, old shackles bolted into its surface.
James's stomach tightened. "This is where they—"
"I know," Ilyanna cut him off. Her voice was cold, steady, but her eyes told him she hated every inch of this place.
A soft rattling echoed from the far cell.
They approached slowly, the lamplight spilling across the bars. Inside, a figure sat slumped against the wall, draped in tattered fabric. Chains bound their wrists and ankles. Their head lifted as the light reached them.
It was a woman—gaunt, pale, her eyes sunken but still sharp.
"You… heard me…" she rasped, her voice matching the wind's whispers.
"Yes," James said, crouching beside the bars. "Who are you? What happened?"
Her gaze darted around nervously. "No time. Guards… they come at night. You must break the lock—now."
James glanced at Ilyanna. She didn't hesitate, pulling a thin steel tool from her pouch. "Watch my back," she said, kneeling at the lock.
As James scanned the shadows, he caught a faint sound—the muffled thud of boots on stone, somewhere beyond the corridor.
"Hurry," he muttered.
The lock clicked, the cell door creaking open. The woman stumbled forward, nearly collapsing into James's arms.
"They keep others… further down," she whispered. "But they'll kill them if they know I'm gone."
Bootsteps grew louder. Voices barked orders in the distance.
"We can't fight a whole garrison down here," Ilyanna said sharply. "We get her out first. Then we come back with help."
They retraced their steps quickly, the lamp's light bobbing in the oppressive dark. Behind them, the voices turned to shouts—the escape had been noticed.
As they reached the stairwell, a shadow moved at the top. Two men appeared, one armed with a short sword, the other with a cudgel.
Ilyanna's arrow flew before either could speak. It struck the sword-wielder in the shoulder, sending him crashing into the wall. James surged forward, slamming his lamp into the cudgel-man's face and kicking him down the stairs.
"Go!" he barked, pulling the rescued woman ahead.
They burst into the back hall, the noise of the arena's upper levels washing over them. Ilyanna yanked a drape from a nearby gambling table and wrapped it around the woman to disguise her.
The three of them slipped into the crowd, disappearing among drunken gamblers and shouting pit fans.
By the time the Hollow Pit guards reached the main hall, James, Ilyanna, and the woman were already gone—just another shadow swallowed by the streets of Iguro.