Her nostrils flared. Her yellow eyes narrowed. The slitted pupils contracted. Her lips— thin, pressed— curled. The expression of a woman who has smelled something that offends her on a level beyond the physical.
The smell was of cum. Of piss. Of sweat. Of unwashed bodies. Of blood. Of infection. Of the accumulated, concentrated, compressed stench of human misery compressed into a underground space with no ventilation and no light.
She walked.
The corridor opened. Into a wider space. A chamber. The dungeon chamber. The room was large— thirty feet by forty. The ceiling was vaulted— stone arches, the work of masons who had built this place to last. The floor was stone. Drainage channels ran along the walls— for the water, for the blood, for the other fluids.
The walls had holes.
