They began their descent into the depths of the Hall.
For Rowena, each step felt heavier than the last, as if the stone beneath her boots conspired to drag her down into something final—inescapable. The cold of the stairwell crept into her skin, a quiet whisper of dread coiling around her chest. The deeper they went, the thinner the air seemed to grow, pressing in with an unseen weight that made her chest tighten.
Solas, however, felt none of that. To him, the descent wasn't a march toward punishment, but a path to something greater—clarity, perhaps even transformation. The chill in the air felt refreshing, the silence a space to think. Every echo of his footfall rang with possibility. There was a future waiting for him at the bottom of these stairs. A trial, yes—but also an opportunity.
And yet, one detail lingered in his mind—Revek's cap. It stood out, strangely modern compared to the otherwise medieval world around them. The sharp design and tailored fabric didn't match the traditional armor and robes of the guards and wardens. It looked out of place—like something not from this time period. Was it just an coincidence? Or… was there someone else like him, dragged into this world from another?
The thought stirred something in his chest as they reached the bottom.
A cold draft greeted them first. Then the corridor came into view—long, narrow, and carved from dark stone. Faint silver runes pulsed along the walls, casting an eerie glow over the polished floor. Iron-barred doors lined both sides like silent sentinels, some shut tight, others cracked open just enough to hint at the shadows within.
Somewhere deeper, the rhythmic drip of water echoed—a slow, steady reminder that time still moved here, even if it felt forgotten.
Revek continued ahead without hesitation, her boots clacking confidently against the stone.
They had arrived—at the threshold of the Judges' prison cells.
Solas took in the surroundings, reflecting on everything he had seen so far. The architecture of the courtyard had been striking, impressive even—but something about the kingdom felt wrong. Controlled. Too controlled. The people's faces betrayed little warmth or spirit. Their eyes were wary, their expressions subdued.
He knew that law and order required discipline, that military precision often called for sacrifice. But this… this was something else entirely. It was oppressive. Fear seemed woven into the very stone.
Especially in the way they had looked at him.
He wondered what they were taught about men here—what stories they were told, what lies had been woven into their culture. It made him think of Vaelira's squad and how others looked at them with veiled contempt. Maybe that was why they were so often dismissed or sneered at. They weren't disobedient or defiant—but because they were different. Lively. Expressive. Human. In a kingdom where everything seemed bound by order, silence, and control, perhaps being alive in spirit was seen as a flaw.
Soon, Revek came to a sudden halt. Rowena stumbled a little at the abrupt stop, catching herself, while Solas stopped just a step behind.
Without a word, Revek pulled out a ring of keys, flicking through them until she selected a single, worn one. She turned to the cell beside them and slid the key into the lock. With a dull click, the door creaked open.
Her gaze shifted toward Rowena. "Get in."
"Eh?" Rowena blinked, surprised. She glanced at Solas, then back to Revek. "Isn't he going in with me?" She lifted her bound hands slightly, fingers fidgeting.
"Get in." The command came again, sharper this time—no room for argument.
Rowena hesitated, but stepped into the cell. The room was small, its stone walls cold and bare, the air heavy with silence. She turned around, eyes searching Solas's face for something—comfort, an answer, anything.
Solas met her gaze with a soft, reassuring smile. It'll be fine, his eyes seemed to say.
The iron door shut with a deep clang that echoed through the corridor, followed by the solid twist of a lock. Rowena flinched slightly, the sound final.
Revek didn't pause. She turned to Solas, voice flat. "Come on."
They walked on, passing several more cells—some empty, others occupied by figures hunched in silence or barely clinging to consciousness. The air grew colder here, thick with despair. The deeper they went, the more it felt like the light of the world above had been forgotten entirely.
Looking forward, in a calm tone, "I hope the cell you've prepared suits me."
Revek didn't respond—but her silence was enough.
The deeper they ventured into the hall, the emptier it became. Silence stretched around them, disturbed only by the echo of their footsteps against stone. Each step forward seemed to carry them further from the world above—into a place where voices didn't belong.
At the very end stood a door unlike the rest.
Where the previous cells were barred with simple iron, this one was a monolith—solid blackened steel, featureless and imposing. No window. No slits. Only a small rectangular slot near the bottom, bolted shut. Just wide enough to pass through a tray or chains. A prison within a prison.
Above the frame, etched into the stone and partially worn by time, was a sigil a silver serpent coiled tightly around a black tower. Faded, but unmistakable. It reeked of authority and warning. This wasn't a cell meant for containment—it was built for control, or worse.
Revek halted before it and reached for a heavier key from a separate chain at her hip.
A faint smirk tugged at Solas's lips. Calmly, he remarked, "You flatter me."
Revek, as ever, said nothing. She unlocked the door, and it opened with a groaning creak, old hinges straining under the weight of time and disuse.
Solas narrowed his eyes as the room revealed itself. Sparse. Dim. In the center, a lone wooden chair stood beneath a shaft of pale sunlight that filtered down from a narrow grate high in the ceiling. Straps dangled from its arms and legs—dark leather worn by years of use.
A torture chair.
"Go," Revek ordered, gesturing forward.
Solas complied without hesitation. The room swallowed him as he stepped inside, his footsteps echoing against the bare stone. The air was dry and heavy. He approached the chair and turned slowly, lowering himself into it with almost theatrical calm.
He didn't need to ask what this was. Interrogation. Torture. Humiliation. Maybe all three. All because he was a man.
He chuckled faintly under his breath. The absurdity of it was nearly entertaining.
The door groaned shut behind him. Revek's boots clicked across the floor until she stood in front of him, silent, steady. She reached down, uncuffed his wrists—only to strap them into the leather bindings moments later. Ankles followed.
Still, Solas's expression didn't falter. He met her gaze evenly, as though curious what came next. As though this was nothing.
Revek stepped back and turned, heading into the dark corner of the room to begin whatever had been ordered—or whatever she had planned.
Still, she found Solas… fascinating.
She'd broken plenty of men in this chamber before—screaming, begging, collapsing—but he was different. Unbothered. Amused, even.
But that didn't matter. She'd give him a reason to scream. A reason to break.
As she disappeared into the shadows, Solas watched her go, his expression calm, unreadable.
When she returned with a black rag and a bucket of water, he only gave a crooked, dry smile—like it was all a game.
Then, with quiet mockery, he opened his mouth and said,
"Let's see if this satisfies your queen."