". . ."
Against all odds, Faz's face didn't change. Hers was still a mask that I couldn't decipher.
She then looked over at the ceiling, but the longing in her eyes told me that she wasn't really looking at the vaulted cement.
"I am . . . rotting away here . . . ," she uttered, not really looking at anything and not really seeing anyone.
Faz's voice resonated with a mix of bitterness, resignation, and a trace of vulnerability. Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of her suffering and the realization of the eternal imprisonment she had endured.
Her gaze shifted away from the pentagram, her eyes focusing on some distant point beyond the confines of the chamber. It was as if she were lost in a memory or a longing for freedom that seemed unattainable.
