Killian glanced back at his team, then motioned forward.
They moved down the corridor, claws out and raised like the deathly weapons they could be.
The walls bore deep scratches, some smeared with old blood. The oppressive weight of dark magic clung to the air like a sickness.
Killian’s gut twisted.
He already knew it wouldn’t be good.
The first door resisted. His boot slammed into it once, twice—on the fourth strike, the rusted hinges gave way, and the door crashed inward.
The smell hit him first.
Rot. Blood. Filth.
A man—if he could still be called that—was slumped in the corner. Skin stretched tight over bone, his wrists raw and burned where silver bit into flesh. His breath rattled, uneven, as if he no longer remembered how to take in air.
Killian crouched.
**“
