The darkness of the Obsidian dungeons was not a hollow thing. It was thick,
viscous, and possessed a weight that seemed to press against my skin like a
physical shroud. It carried the scent of centuries-old dampness, the metallic
tang of stagnant water dripping from iron-veined stone, and the cloying, sweet
rot of forgotten hope. In this place, time was not measured by the passage of
the sun or the shifting of the moon, but by the rhythmic, agonizing pulse of the
silver-lined shackles around my wrists.
I lay on a bed of moldering straw that offered no comfort, only the sharp
prickle of dried stalks against my raw skin. Every breath I drew was a battle.
The air was thin, filtered through the narrow, high-altitude vents of the
mountain, and it carried the microscopic dust of the training pits above—sweat,
blood, and the ozone of shifting wolves. To a "wolfless" freak like me, that
scent was a constant, mocking reminder of the heritage I had been denied.
