The iron doors let out a loud groan as they opened, the sound echoing down the cold, damp halls of the dungeon. King Ivar stepped through, his figure big and intimidating, framed by the flickering light of the torches on the stone walls. Two guards followed behind him, each carrying trays of food. The smell of roasted meat and stale bread tried—but failed—to make the grim atmosphere a little less suffocating.
Apollo and Amari were in separate cells, both silent. Apollo wasn't taking it well—he was pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his fists clenching and unclenching as though he didn't know where to channel all his frustration. Amari, on the other hand, sat cross-legged on the floor, looking calm enough on the surface but rigid, bracing himself like he knew something was coming.
