Time inside the underground cell of The Iron Citadel was no longer measured by the sun.
Instead, it was measured by the condensation dripping from the steam pipes behind the steel walls.
Drip... drip... drip.
A freezing chill crept up from the floor, numbing their fingertips. This cramped room served only a single purpose: to slowly gnaw away at its occupants' sanity.
Roland Sudrath sat leaning against the hard wooden bench. His eyes were closed, but his mind was racing.
As a diplomat, Roland had memorized the anatomy of psychological torture. The Iron Empire had no need to physically break them. Leaving the Northreach delegation to rot in absolute silence—without knowing whether they would survive the next hour—was more than enough.
Despair was a poison far deadlier than arsenic.
Roland opened one eye. Selene stood like a statue at the corner of the table, her usually gleaming sea-blue eyes now looking murky. The void-like air was choking the Arcanum Master.
