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The ancient draconic dungeon that was reserved for punishment is situated deep below the earth.
A black, rotting hole that not even the slightest flicker of sunlight penetrates, where dragon fire once scorched the walls centuries ago.
The wet walls are slimy, covered in mould that breathes a sick, sour stench, and the chains hang from the ceilings like deadly vines—forged specifically to drain any remaining traces of fae magic.
A sound— drips of water.
No, not just it.
Footsteps.
The figure sprawled on the cold ground, whose very senses have been sharpened from being trapped in the dark for so long, can hear it.
A fire torch comes into view, and the light floods the dungeon, causing rats to flee to their hiding areas; the sounds of chains rattle as tormented prisoners hope to earn the intruder's attention, their mournful cries growing louder.
