Cassandra’s POV
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The air in the dungeon was thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood. Torches flickered weakly against the cold walls, their light barely reaching the iron bars lining the long corridor. I trailed beside Cyprus, our footsteps echoing against the stone floor as we followed the Queen deeper into the prison’s depths.
Tonight was about tradition. A sacred one, they said. But something about it made my skin crawl.
"We must choose wisely," Cyprus murmured beside me, his crimson eyes scanning the prisoners shackled to the walls. "The mortal we select must be… suitable."
Suitable. That was the word. There were certain traits they were looking for—purity of blood, resilience, something about their essence that would make the feast more… fulfilling.
I swallowed hard
