The stone building was cold, its walls thick and oppressive, offering little solace to the tortured soul within.
The flickering light of a single, guttering candle barely illuminated the damp stone floor, casting twisted shadows across the room.
In the far corner, tied to a rusted iron chair, sat Oberon—his once proud and noble frame now gaunt, his face pale from lack of food and blood, his eyes barely open, clouded by exhaustion and despair.
His body trembled, not from the cold, but from the agonizing pain of being starved and his mind tortured without rest.
His dark red eyes were now dim, lost in a fog of hunger and hopelessness.
Two vulpin guards stood on either side of him, their eyes sharp, but their postures relaxed, unaware of the silent danger approaching. They chatted quietly among themselves, oblivious to the impending death that was creeping closer.
