Deep beneath the stone foundations of the Sanctum, in a chamber choked with darkness, sweat and blood, the air sat thick like old oil—used, dirty, and slow to move. The flickering torchlight along the chamber's edges did little to illuminate the room. Instead, it painted the walls in writhing shadows, like worms twisting across damp stone.
And there he sat.
Van Dijk, once Tower Master of the Black Circle. Now a prisoner of the Holy Order.
He looked like a man carved up for study—slumped forward, his arms pinned to the chair's cold iron by hooks and straps and divine glyphs carved into rust-worn restraints. His fingers were split and scabbed. One of his nails dangled loose, half torn away. His ribs were visible through a mixture of burnt skin and deep bruises, as if someone had flayed him with dull silver and holy spite.
But his posture was relaxed.
Almost too relaxed.
