The black volcanic stone walls radiated a suffocating heat.
Veins of reddish-gold runes pulsed faintly along the corridor. The ceiling was low, littered with blunt stalactites that periodically dripped cold water onto the stone floor.
Drip. Drip.
The sound of those drops was the only thing shattering the freezing silence outside the throne room doors.
Roland Sudrath stood at the very front. His white shirt was already grimy with limestone dust. The wound on his left shoulder throbbed with a stinging pain, but he didn't shift his upright posture in the slightest. His face was as calm as a frozen lake.
Behind him, Riven stood like a mountain of stone blocking the path. His bandaged left arm hung relaxed, but the thumb of his right hand continuously stroked the hilt of his short sword. His gray eyes swept through every corner of the shadows.
"What's the status?" Roland whispered without turning his head.
