Draven pushed open the creaky gate and stepped into the ancient dungeon. The air was thick with the musty scent of decay, and cobwebs laced every corner of the dark, damp space. The stone walls were blackened with age and etched with strange symbols that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.
Skeletons littered the floor, their bones picked clean by rats and insects. Dried patches of blood stained the walls and floor, evidence of the many lives that had been taken in this place.
As he walked deeper into the dungeon, he spotted Vlad, Alastair, and Soren gathered around a group of noblemen and woman who knelt before them, fear evident in their eyes. Draven approached them with a sly grin on his face.
"My, my..." he spoke, drawing their attention to himself. "Wouldn't princess Rhiannon be mad if she was to know that her future husband is about to steal the kingdom from her?" His eyes twinkled with mischief as he surveyed the group before him.
