The air changed as she descended — grew thick, tasted of iron and ash and something older, something that made the hairs on her arms rise despite the cold.

The iron door waited at the corridor's end, a slab of black metal four times her height. The runes carved across its surface pulsed in a slow rhythm, like a heartbeat. Silver light bled from their edges, casting faint patterns across the dusty floor.

Beyond the bars, the cell stretched into shadow. A single torch burned low on the far wall, its flame struggling against the damp.

The figure sat in the center of that gloom.