Not in the way old stones sometimes do—with creaks and drafts that mimic memory. No, these whispers were deliberate, sharp as a splintered lance, and they came not from the corridors but from within the warden himself.
The crimson of the keep wasn't blood. It was iron oxide, old paint, sunset reflection. He had mythologized his own tyranny until the myth ate the man. crimson keep introspurt
"Release them," he said.