Fen.
The dungeon smelled of wet stone, scorched iron, and damp regret. It clung to the skin, that old air, even after the fires were lit and the chill pushed back. I never liked bringing prisoners down here—not because I pitied them. I've seen too much for that. But because something about this place still echoed with the screams of the last war, and I'd been here long enough to recognize ghosts when they whispered.
Kael wasn't screaming, though. Not anymore.
He sat upright in the cell I'd chosen for him—one of the old holding rooms near the outer corridor. It had a narrow window that let in some grey light, a proper bed with a wool blanket, and a chipped stone table just big enough for two. I'd ordered meals brought down three times a day, and clean water. He didn't act like a prisoner. Not quite like a guest, either. Somewhere in between. Like he was still deciding which mask to wear.
