LYRA POINT OF VIEW

The dungeons of Moonfang were carved deep beneath the stronghold, older than the throne hall above them, older even than some of the bloodlines that now ruled within these walls.

Cold lived there.

Not just in the stone, but in the air itself.

Torches burned low along the corridors, their light dim and flickering, casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands across the walls. The scent of iron, damp earth, and old pain lingered thick enough to taste.

I descended the ...