[Silthara Palace—Imperial Dungeon—Midnight—The Same Night]
Midnight beneath the Silthara Palace did not feel like night—it felt like burial.
The Imperial Dungeon stretched endlessly beneath stone and shadow, its air thick with rust, dampness, and silence old enough to remember screams. Red Knights stood guard along the corridor, unmoving beneath torchlight that flickered weakly against iron bars.
Inside one of the deepest cells sat Nabuarsh, or rather, what remained of him. The bread left beside the bars had gone untouched. The water is untouched as well.
He sat in the furthest corner of the cell, back against cold stone, head lowered slightly, not proud, not defiant... just... hollow.
The sound of approaching footsteps suddenly echoed through the corridor, heavy and measured. The Red Knights immediately straightened, then bowed deeply.
Arkhazunn descended the dungeon stairs slowly, dark robes trailing behind him like mourning itself.
