Aldric led the way down the narrow stone steps, the air turning cold and damp with the scent of earth long untouched. A single lantern hung from a low beam, its flickering glow stretching shadows into jagged shapes along the walls.
In the corner, chained to a heavy iron ring, sat the man.
Without his scholar's robes, Vane Ashford looked smaller. Not weaker—just… diminished. His hands, once steady instruments of brilliance and cruelty, trembled in his lap. He didn't look up as the eight leaders entered, followed by the looming figures of Alistair and Asarmose.
Alistair remained near the stairs, swallowed by shadow. His head stayed slightly lowered, the dim light barely catching the edge of his jaw. He said nothing. A King's voice—even softened—carried.
"Vane."
Elara's voice cut through the cellar like a blade.
Vane flinched violently, his head snapping up.
Without his spectacles, his eyes strained against the dimness.
