The dungeons beneath the palace were cold and damp, the air heavy with the scent of mildew and stone. Torches flickered along the narrow corridors, casting wavering shadows on the walls. Lord Velron sat on a wooden bench in his cell, his fine coat rumpled and his face pale. His usual smug demeanor had vanished, replaced by a wary tension as he waited for what was to come.
Damien stood just outside the cell, his steel-gray eyes locked onto Velron. Amara and Carys flanked him, their expressions as sharp and cold as his.
"Velron," Damien began, his voice calm but edged with steel. "You have one chance to tell me everything. Who else is part of this conspiracy?"
Velron's lips pressed into a thin line, his dark eyes darting between the trio. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, though his voice wavered. "This is all a misunderstanding."
