The air inside the subterranean cell felt heavy and damp, a stark contrast to the freezing chill wrapping the mountain peaks above.
The occasional wyvern roars echoing from the distance were now reduced to mere whispers, smothered completely by layers of ancient stone and suffocating silence.
Rianor stood tall in the center of the cramped stone room. His wire-rimmed glasses reflected the orange glow emanating from outside the cell. His gray eyes stared straight at the Dwarven King, who remained standing firmly at the threshold.
The stocky old man returned Rianor's gaze. His aging eyes were dim, yet narrowed into a sharp calculation of every life before him. His grizzled gray beard brushed against the steel breastplate on his chest, while gold runes etched across his arms and shoulders pulsed in rhythm with his breath.
Resting in his hand was a warhammer inscribed with white runes. Silent, yet dripping with lethal threat.
