They didn't hear him at first.
Just the drip of water from somewhere unseen, and the sound of their own boots hitting stone. One step. Then another. Then twenty more.
The corridor narrowed again before it opened.
Lucen stepped past the last archway and paused.
The chamber ahead wasn't huge. Not like the grand hall upstairs. This one felt closer. More personal. Like it had been carved by hand. For something specific.
Stone columns ringed the edges, each etched with vertical slashes and runes faded to scratches. The floor was smooth. Polished in a way that didn't make sense. Like no one had ever touched it, and yet it had been walked for centuries.
And in the center stood the man.
Tall. Still.
His armor was rusted in places, but full. Plate over chain. Blackened steel with silver trim that flaked in the light like ash off a dying fire. A longsword rested point-down in front of him, both hands on the pommel. Fingers gloved. Motionless.
He wore no helmet.
