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The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows across the dank stone walls of Borst’s underground headquarters. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear. In the center of the room, bound to a sturdy wooden chair, sat Lorna. Her once-proud frame was slumped, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Despite the bruises marring her wrinkled face and the blood trickling from her split lip, her milky eyes remained defiant.
Borst paced before her, his corpulent form trembling with barely contained rage. “I’ll ask you one last time, witch,” he snarled, spittle flying from his lips. “Where did the elk rider and his goblin whore go?”
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