The air in Bran Fortress felt heavy, and oppressive, and stuck to my skin like a damp fog. The stranger led us forward, his steps light and purposeful. He did not speak, or offer any explanation, but I could feel Emmet's unease beside me. My mind hummed with questions, but my instinct told me to stay quiet.
The corridors wind and twist, the stone walls towering above us like a maze designed to swallow us whole. Yet the stranger never hesitated, never faltered. He moved with the surety of someone who knew every hidden passage, every secret turn. We passed by rooms I had never seen before, their darkened entrances hinting at horrors I did not want to imagine.
Ahead, the stranger finally paused at the mouth of a narrow tunnel that sloped downward into darkness. I caught his gaze briefly—a flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes—and then he motioned for us to follow him.
