Unknown Location
The old chamber did not belong to any map. It existed beneath stone that remembered no architect, beneath a city—or perhaps a ruin—that had long since forgotten its own name. The walls were slick with moisture that did not drip, etched with sigils that shifted when no one looked directly at them. The air tasted metallic, bitter with old spells and newer sins.
Prince Althur of the Maden Kingdom lay shackled at the center of it all.
Chains—thin, elegant things, engraved with runes so precise they bordered on artistry—held him spread against a slab of black stone. They did not crush his bones. They did not cut his skin unnecessarily. Every restraint had been calculated to hold, not end. His once-regal frame was gaunt now, collarbones sharp beneath torn fabric, ribs faintly visible when his chest rose in shallow breaths.
If he had been found like this by his people, they would not have recognized him at first.
