Chapter 32: FRIH - 32
Meanwhile, in the dungeon...
The torchlight flickered along the damp stone walls, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted like dark specters with every subtle movement of flame. A faint draft wound through the narrow corridors, carrying with it the scent of mold, metal, and aged stone. The low ceiling seemed to press down, emphasizing the solemn weight of the moment.
"Any news?" Lord Marco's voice echoed in the dim space.
It rang firm and cold, rebounding off the stone with a hollow sharpness. His eyes, narrowed and calculating, turned toward his nephew. The torch nearest to him highlighted the lines of age and authority etched into his face, while his crimson cloak, though dulled in the dungeon's dim light, still spoke of his station. His frown deepened as his tone sharpened.
He looked at his nephew, frowning. "Why did those adventurers attack Ronan? Were they mad?"
Martin stood rigid beneath the oppressive air of the dungeon, his hands clasped behind his back, trying to ignore the chill seeping through his boots. The dungeon was silent except for the occasional drip of water in some distant cell and the muffled creaks of old wood above. It was a place designed for secrecy, for discretion, and for intimidation.
Martin, having overheard Ronan and Frieren at the market, hadn't known about the magical tools.
The memory returned to him in vivid clarity—how the adventurers' names had passed Ronan's lips like a judge reading a verdict. The market crowd, the tense moment, the ease with which Ronan had disarmed the situation. Even now, it unsettled him. His brow tightened, and his lips pressed into a flat line. He hadn't wanted to believe it at first.
His expression was complex as he recounted the pugilist's confession.