Owain strode through a heavy oak door that marked the boundary between the manor proper and the dungeons beneath, and the air grew even colder as he did. The stone walls here were older, rougher, and lacked any of the heavy tapestries that helped the halls above to retain their warmth. Torches burned in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that made the narrow corridor seem to writhe around him as the sound of his boots ringing on bare stone echoed down the hall.
Owain's smile finally fell away completely. Down here, there were no servants to perform for, no nobles to charm, no witnesses to maintain his carefully constructed facade. Down here, there was only stone and shadow and the cold, and three prisoners who would answer for what they'd done to his woman.
