LUCY
I'm in a dungeon.
It is a foul, wretched place that feels like the digestive tract of some ancient, dying beast.
The air is thick, not only with dust, but with a humid, cloying stench—a nauseating cocktail of stagnant water, rusted iron, and the sweet, heavy perfume of rot. Every breath I take feels like I'm inhaling the history of every soul that has ever suffered within these walls.
The dungeon itself is sprawling, a cavernous expanse of shadows where the only light comes from flickering, sickly green torches mounted far down the corridor. There are no windows.
The only "fresh" air is a meager, freezing draft that whistles through the cracks of the surrounding stone, suggesting that this cell is buried deep within a fortress that is, itself, buried within a mountain or another huge building.
It's a dungeon within a dungeon. And that amps my misery just as it does for my fear. How do I escape from such a hold?
