The cellar was dark, damp, and smelled like old wood. Dust particles danced in the dim light, filtering through a small, grime-covered window, revealing the worn-out stones and rusty chains that lined the walls.
Wooden shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of forgotten things such as pliers, needles, and other blood-covered instruments of torture.
Cobwebs clung to the corners, silent witnesses to years of neglect of the cellar that served as a prison. The air was cool, carrying a musty scent of oldness. The wooden floor, worn and uneven, creaked underfoot.
It felt like a forgotten world, a place untouched by any human. The only sounds were the occasional drop of water and the distant murmur of the world above.
It was a place no one would accidentally stumble into, a perfect prison hidden below the Church that not even the Saintess knew existed.
