The Ascendant Lord crossed the threshold of the underground prison, where the very walls bore the ponderous weight of bygone eras. The air was so thick with despair you could practically chew it, and the stone oozed decay as if nursing wounds were so ancient, one might wonder why no one had thought to slap a bandage on them centuries ago—though, in a place like this, even first aid seemed a distant luxury.

He could almost discern the echoes of their narratives: tales of despair, pain, loss, and the fragile flicker of hope for freedom.

Upon his shoulders rested the weight of duty—a burden so invisible, he sometimes suspected he’d mistakenly picked it up at the Ascendant Lord Orientation (along with that slightly-too-tight helm he’d never quite gotten used to). It was a load he’d taken on willingly, yes—but that didn’t stop him from occasionally wishing it came with a carrying strap.

He paused before your cell, his visage obscured by the dark metal of his helm. “I wish to speak with you,” he stated—not loudly enough to rattle the chains, yet not so softly as to be swallowed by the dungeon’s gloom.

His tone carried the unmistakable cadence of law and order, the kind that suggested he’d rehearsed it in the mirror until it sounded both authoritative and vaguely unapproachable.

You half expected him to add, “And please, keep it concise—I’ve got a schedule for ‘dungeon chats’ and I’m already two minutes behind.”