His tone carried a mixture of curiosity and anger, as though he had long since abandoned any hope of escaping this hell.
Sorayah stiffened, her breath hitching as she slowly turned her gaze toward the source of the voice. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs, an uneasy feeling curling in the pit of her stomach.
The wind had grown stronger, and with it, the sickening stench she had desperately tried to block out found its way back, invading her senses. The air felt heavy, charged with an ominous stillness, and the flickering candlelight barely held back the darkness pressing in around her. The sky outside rumbled faintly, a warning of the impending storm.
Her eyes strained to pierce the gloom, seeking out the owner of the voice. Slowly, as her vision adjusted, the figure of a man took shape. He stood tall, his broad shoulders rigid, his posture one of quiet endurance.
