"Who is it?"
"What?"
The journey to Angela's cell began at the surface, in a corner of the Iondora Empire Palace where the marble floors gave way to rough-hewn stone and the gilded chandeliers were replaced by flickering torches that spat and hissed in the damp air.
A single iron door opened onto a spiral staircase that corkscrewed downward into the earth.
Tap—
As they descended the stairs, Damon asked Stevan.
"You don't know?"
"Again, what is this about, Your Majesty?" Stevan asked back.
The steps were narrow and uneven, worn smooth in the center by centuries of footsteps. Wardens, prisoners, executioners… all descending into the same cold dark.
"The woman my sister planned to be my consort," Damon said. "Perhaps you know?"
Stevan looked at him dumbfounded.
The air changed as one descended. The dry, polished atmosphere of the palace above gave way to something thicker, wetter, heavy with the mineral scent of ancient stone and the metallic tang of rust.
