The catacombs of the Sacrosanctum were quiet, yet not with the peace of rest. They carried that stifling silence particular to dungeons steeped in centuries of cruelty, where the air itself remembered screams and refused to let them go. Torches burned low in sconces along the rough-hewn walls, their flames guttering with each draft that slipped through ancient cracks. The smell was a mix of mildew, iron, and something acrid, the residue of too many lives extinguished in too small a space.
In one of the torture rooms deep below, Hiro stood with Hoyo and two bishops of the Order. Once, five years ago, his very presence would have inspired laughter or disdain. Fat, trembling, wheezing with each step, that was the summoned Hero the world had been given. But that man was gone.
