the air was thick with a palpable tension, barely interrupted by the flickering glow of a single torch mounted on the wall.
The flames cast eerie, dancing shadows across the cold, stone walls, their light revealing a grim tableau. The room, vast and foreboding, seemed almost to breathe with a life of its own, resonating with the harsh sounds of a crackling fire and the muffled, distant echoes of something like torment.
Lorcan knelt in the center of the room, a broken figure barely resembling the proud and defiant man he once was.
His once-imposing form was now hunched and bruised, every part of him bearing the marks of the relentless violence he had endured. His hair, once neatly groomed, now hung in disheveled strands over his face, damp with sweat and grime.
