Though the gray, soulless breath of the sun could be felt in the upper floors of the Alberta Castle, in the depths of the dungeons, time was measured only by the sound of dripping water and the creaking of rusted chains.
This was a place where the coldness of the stone didn't just seep into one's bones, but directly into the soul—a place where hope was left to rot. The moisture seeping from the walls had mingled with the cold sweat of the prisoners, leaving a heavy, metallic scent of despair in the air.
Varg moved like a colossal shadow in the flickering light of the torches. The sweat he had shed on the upper floor was mere training; what happened here was a ritual.
What humans called "justice," Varg wrote here with his own claws, accompanied by the sound of breaking bones and blood.
