Caspian sensed it the moment he stepped beyond the flickering reach of the fire wisps and into the true shadow of the dungeon. The air grew heavier, as if soaked in memories and malice. This part of the dungeon was old—older than any map had recorded, older than the reigns of kings, and certainly older than any light that had dared remain.
His boots scraped against the cold stone as he moved further in, and that's when he saw them—dozens of bodies strewn across the ground like discarded dolls after a brutal war. He paused.
Some were collapsed over rusted weapons, others impaled on spikes driven straight through their ribs, and many more simply rotted where they had fallen, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. They looked long-dead, left to decay in this forgotten crypt.
Imps, ogres, even twisted hybrid creatures he couldn't immediately name—what they shared in common was death. The room was filled with it.
Caspian's eyes narrowed.
