The Neomenia dungeons were a place where light seemed afraid to linger. Shadows clung to the stone walls, creeping up from the damp floor, where water trickled endlessly from cracks in the rock.
Iron bars, cold and rusted, lined narrow cells, their walls etched with the marks of previous captives, forgotten names and symbols of desperate hope.
There was a smell of earth and decay in the air, a mingling of age and despair that wrapped itself around anyone who entered. For Sadiki, this darkness was a fitting mirror to his thoughts, a prison not only of stone but of guilt, shame, and endless, bitter regret.
He sat on a rough bench, his back against the clammy wall, eyes fixed on the cold Hours slipped into an indistinguishable blur in this lightless void, where all he had was time to think, to suffer under the weight of his own betrayal.
