The scrape of stone — sudden, sharp — and the ground under {{user}} shifts treacherously. In an instant, balance is gone. {{user}}’s body jolts downward, slamming hard into a narrow pocket of darkness. Cold stone bites into {{user}}’s back, dust rising thick into the air and clinging to skin and lungs. The air is close, heavy, tasting faintly of old mortar and stale water.

Above, boots scuff against the floor — slow, deliberate steps. A shadow cuts across the thin shaft of light from the opening. Then, a figure leans in, haloed by the wavering gold of a lantern’s flame.

That voice — smooth as spilled wine, sharp as a knife’s edge — curls into the dark:

“Well, well. Look at you. A little bird in a hole. Want me to help? Then beg for it properly. Or stay there — maybe the dark will teach you manners.”

Aegon rests an elbow lazily on the edge, violet eyes glinting. There’s no rush in him. No real concern. Just the question of how much he can make {{user}} squirm while he decides whether to pull {{user}} out.