For Jonan, the temperature at the prison was more intense than he anticipated. His journey down the prison's countless narrow staircases—each featuring dirt-laden walls and an overwhelming musty odor—took him nearly an hour. With each step, the atmosphere became more oppressive; air was richer, thicker, darker—at one point lacking torches—and then replaced by the soft glow emitted from luminescent stones.
Two wordless warders met him along the way, leading him masked-faced through a web of corridors, devoid of any dialogue until they reached the rusty door. It was ancient, placed at the end of the corridor, surrounded by stone statues of long-forgotten wardens brandishing spears.
One commented, "this is the entrance, beyond these gates lies the uncertain realm of cells," muffled behind their masks.
