Lyan and Althea moved carefully down the narrow, dimly lit staircase that led to the underground prison beneath Hektor's mansion. The air was damp, cold, and carried the sour scent of mildew. Lyan couldn't help but wonder how many unfortunate souls had been trapped here over the years, left to rot without a second thought. He exchanged a glance with Althea, who had her hand resting on the hilt of her sword, ready for anything that might jump out of the shadows.
As they reached the bottom, Lyan heard a muffled sound from one of the cells, growing louder as they approached. A voice, distinctly female, sharp and filled with frustration, echoed through the stone corridors.
"That stupid old fart, Hektor! I swear, if I get my hands on him, I'll wring his greasy neck! And his son, that creepy, slimy pervert—thinking he can swoon girls with those leering eyes of his. Ugh, he gives me chills just thinking about it!"
