A staircase spiraled downward, lit only by a single spell-lamp that pulsed weakly. She padded down, every sense straining. The walls here were smoother, newer—Calderon families liked marble where Arundels favored granite—but chips marred the lower sections, perhaps from hurried furniture or struggling captives.
Halfway down, she paused beside a narrow floor vent with iron slats. Through the gaps she glimpsed muted lamplight and a rectangular chamber below. She knelt, slitting one gloved finger beneath a slat to pry it just enough for the visor to focus.
Lucien.
He knelt at the room's center, wrists bound behind him with a shimmer of arcane manacles that flickered each time he shifted. His dark hair—normally neat—hung over his eyes in damp strands. Even from above she spotted the ugly bruise purpling along his cheekbone. But his chest rose and fell. Alive.
