The descent into the subterranean darkness of the Serpent's Flue felt like stepping down into the churning entrails of an angry, sleeping dragon. Behind them, the heavy granite trapdoor of the Citadel cellar clicked shut, sealed by General Ronan with a heavy wedge of basalt, cutting off the howling mountain gale and the distant clanking of Ironspire patrols. In front of them, the tunnel plummeted into suffocating, stygian blackness, illuminated…
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