The door groaned open.
Chains scraped stone, and boots thudded toward his cage. Vale's body ached from the last fight—barely a victory, barely survival—but when the gate rattled open and a spear prodded his ribs, he stood.
He'd learned that hesitation earned worse.
Two Demonkin guards flanked him, horns curved like daggers, their black eyes flat. They never spoke. Vale was marched down the corridor, past rows of iron-barred cells. Some were empty. Others held prisoners—mangled or silent, or rocking slowly in madness. Their hollow eyes followed him, empty shells echoing fear and despair.
Jade wasn't among them.
He'd asked once and screamed her name. The guards beat him for that. He hadn't tried again.
The corridor opened into light. Blinding, searing heat. The stench of sweat and blood and burning oil choked the air. Vale's lungs burned as he staggered forward, every breath tasting of ash.
And then the roar.
