The underground cells of House Maddach were nothing like the dungeons in the northern war ballads.
No chains on mossy walls, no stench of rot, no screams echoing down pitch-black corridors.
These were clean. Sterile.
There were no marbles, but the stone polished smooth, each fire-lantern burning gently above thick wooden doors reinforced with steel.
They called it a jail, but it looked more like a minimalist guest chamber.
Inside each cell: a single bed with fresh linen, a small private washroom, a cushioned chair beside a reading slab.
Yet every door was sealed by mana-locked bars that could snap a limb if disrespected.
All the cells were empty.
Except one.
Jorvik sat motionless, elbows on knees, hands dangling, staring at the ground like it held answers.
The only sound was his breath and the soft vibration of the magical ward keeping him in.
But it wasn't the silence that unnerved him. It was the memory.
"Why me?!"
