By Victor Simdrix
Chapter 23 – Shadows in the Dungeon
The dungeon of Valebridge was a place where light went to die. The walls dripped with dampness, thick with the stench of mildew and rusted iron. The air was cold, pressing against skin and bone until even fire itself seemed reluctant to burn.
Nyra sat on the stone floor, her wrists raw from chains. The Emberstone's glow still lingered in her mind, proof she had spoken truth — yet the council's fear outweighed justice. That betrayal stung deeper than the manacles.
A rat scurried across the floor, squeaking as if mocking her fall from savior to prisoner.
She closed her eyes, whispering to herself, "I will not break. Fire bends, but it never yields."
A voice stirred from the shadows of the cell opposite hers.
"Bold words… though I've seen stronger spirits turned to ash down here."
Nyra's eyes snapped open. At first, she thought it was another prisoner. But when the torchlight flickered just enough, she saw a figure cloaked in rags, eyes burning with an unnatural luminescence.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
The figure chuckled, low and rasping.
"Names are dangerous in places like this. But if you must call me something, call me Nox Wilder."
The name stirred faint memory — whispered in tales of spies who walked between kingdoms, a ghost of rumor and shadow.
Nox leaned closer to the bars. "You think you were betrayed by Corvin Ashbane? Child, you have no idea. Corvin is but one serpent in a nest of vipers. Malakar's shadow stretches even here, into the veins of Valebridge itself."
Nyra frowned. "You expect me to trust the words of a dungeon rat?"
Another laugh. "Trust? No. But listen? Yes. Because soon, when the council declares you guilty, they will execute you at dawn. And Corvin will see his plan completed."
The words struck hard. Nyra had considered imprisonment… but execution? Even she hadn't thought the council's fear would twist so far.
She pressed closer to the bars. "If you know so much, why help me?"
The torchlight dimmed for a heartbeat. In the silence, Nox's voice lowered.
"Because your fire is not meant to die in a cage. There are greater wars coming than this kingdom dares dream of. You are a flame in a storm of shadows. And if you fall now, everything falls."
Nyra's breath caught. There was conviction in those words, sharper than any blade.
Suddenly, the dungeon door groaned open. A guard descended the stairs, lantern swinging. His boots echoed with hollow thuds. He stopped at Nyra's cell, smirking.
"On your feet, witch. The council has spoken. At dawn, you burn."
The lantern light glinted off his teeth as he laughed. "Fitting, isn't it? Fire consumed by fire."
When he left, silence swallowed the dungeon once more.
Nyra leaned her forehead against the bars. For the first time in years, her fire faltered. Not extinguished—but flickering, thin.
Then, a whisper.
"Dawn is not the end," Nox said. His hand slid something across the floor—small, metallic. A lockpick.
Her eyes widened.
"Choose," Nox murmured. "Wait for their judgment, or make your own."
Nyra stared at the lockpick, the weight of fate pressing on her chest.
And in that cold dungeon, a choice began to burn.
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