Down a long, empty corridor, the clopping of armored hooves reverberated off the cold stone walls. The heatless flames that clung to the withered wood of the torches dimly painted all that was near them a ghastly shade of blue as they radiated their perpetual light, illuminating the path.
The atmosphere grew more and more claustrophobic with each step, the darkness seeming to wrap around the pony’s throat in an attempt to strangle the life out of her. This continued for what could have been a few minutes or possibly even hours or days, the hall was so long.
Just as the world seemed to be closing in on her, the hooded figure noticed the corridor finally was coming to an end. She had reached her destination: a cell. Here, the torches were weaker than ever, the magic keeping them alive nearly dissipated as it left little licks of light on the dried resin.
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The Princesses, when they could not spare enough magical power to send great threats to Tartarus, would instead lock them away here to decay in isolation with an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ mentality.
The darkness of the cell was ominous, seeming to suck away all light and life. Around it were several of the strongest and most long-lasting runes the Runesmiths of the time could conjure, carved into the stone walls surrounding it and some weaved into the cell door itself. Due to being planted centuries ago, however, and with the presence of magic nearly gone altogether, the runes had grown fragile, stiffened and weak as opposed to flexible and sturdy. Breaking these would be child’s play.
The pony stopped short of the entrance, taking a calming breath. She knew what she was about to release as she flared up her horn in a weak purple glow, but she was all out of options at this point. If she wanted to save what she cared for most, she would need to free what should otherwise rot. At least that’s what the Princess told