>Stay silent and listen. The cells speak if you let them

You are the Wolf’s Shadow.

You do not move. You do not speak. You listen. The chains dig into your wrists, iron biting skin gone half-dead from cold. Your breath is shallow. You will it quieter still. You’ve hunted before. In snowdrifts and shadowed halls. Sometimes it is not the arrow that strikes, but the breath that holds before the draw.

So you wait. And in that waiting, the Black Cells begin to speak.

There are sounds here older than you. Water dripping from ceilings so thick with moss it drips green. Rats, bold and unafraid, scratching in corners. Footsteps above—heavy leather, a rusted ring of keys, a muttered curse. You hear a man cough blood. You hear a woman praying in a tongue older than the Seven.

And then—

A whisper. Not the wind. Not a rat. A voice. Low and broken like wind over old snow.

"...wolves do not bury their dead in stone... no... only fire... only ice..."

The cell to your immediate left. You turn your head—slow, slow enough that your vertebrae click—and see a hunched figure through the bars, shadow-wrapped and motionless. He whispers again, softer than breath. You catch only pieces.

"...the prince had silver in his blood... not his eyes, not his sword..."

You shiver. Not from cold.

Farther to the left, someone hums a snatch of melody—an old sailor’s song, but too tuneless to carry warmth. The voice is nasal, nervous. “Down to the bay where the black sails sleep...” he trails off into muttering. He kicks at his door and the metal rings. Then silence.

Still farther: a girl’s voice, lyrical and strange, speaking words not meant for you. “The Mother drinks poison, the Father burns the glass... the Stranger never blinks.”

And then coughing. Wet, rasping, from your immediate right. A man groans and spits. “Fuck your ghosts,” he growls, to no one in particular. His voice is thick with old rage. Chains rattle, muscles strain, and something slams against stone—flesh or bone, it's hard to tell.

Across from you: the smell of rot. As your eyes adjust, you see what lies opposite your cell. A man, slumped and unmoving. Cloak still around him, half-moldered. The stink of death thick enough to taste. The guards haven't removed him. Perhaps they don’t care. Perhaps they want him there.

A whisper again, from the cell beside you. The same voice.

“...shadows cannot die. They slip between.”

You are Torrhen Blackweald. And you are not alone in the dark.

What will you do?
>Speak to the whispering voice beside you
>Call to the man on your right—if his anger allows him to talk
>Try to listen further down the row
>Search your room on your hands and knees
>Write-in