The air in the dungeon was damp and stale, carrying the faint stench of mildew and despair. The faint torchlight flickered against the rough stone walls, casting long, distorted shadows that danced around the three men standing in grim silence. Alpheo stood at the center, his expression composed but sharp, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room with an air of dispassion. Beside him stood Jarza and Asag. Egil was notably absent, having indulged too deeply the night before in the spoils of their conquest mostly wine and maids that caught his eyes.
The servants, for their part, relished in being chosen , knowing that the alternative was far worse. Many had surrendered themselves to the likes of Egil and others willingly, if only to avoid being prey to the unrestrained desires of the dozens of soldiers. Egil had taken full advantage, earning himself a debauched night and, by morning, a splitting hangover.
