#...very small chance

The door clangs shut behind her, leaving Lorniel sprawled on the floor.

Great. She’s always know this was coming eventually. Venture too close to Carn Dûm, run into an orc patrol, get dragged before the False-king himself— the only part confusing her is why she isn’t dead. That, and the icy cold of the stab wound the False-king himself was so kind as to leave her with. It’s probably poisoned, though with what she has no idea. The toxin they’ve usually run afoul of in Angmar burns like fire, but her shoulder is bleeding ice and lightning down her arm and across her chest, slowly spreading.

Lorniel sits up gingerly, taking stock. The cell is even smaller than her own room at Gath Forthnír, with three walls and a floor of solid black stone. The iron bars of the fourth wall leak a bit of torchlight from down the hall into the cell.