Gilbert strode through the dimly lit corridors of the mansion, the weight of his master's power still lingering in the air. The throne room's intense atmosphere had left him rattled, but his loyalty to Alaric drove him forward. He guided Lilith Nightfang through the narrow stone passageways, her body slumped and bloodied after the brutal encounter with Alaric.
They arrived at the cells—cold, unforgiving spaces that echoed with the sounds of the trapped werewolves inside. As Gilbert unlocked the heavy iron door, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for Lilith. Though she had been a formidable opponent and had once been feared among the supernatural families, now she was a mere shadow of her former self.
"Get up," he commanded, his voice stern as he pulled her roughly into the cell. Lilith's body was limp, her silver hair matted with blood, but she managed to lift her head and glare at him defiantly.
