As they crossed the pitch-black corridor, the Magic Lamps enchanted with divine spells had long since gone out, leaving only cold fixtures embedded in the walls.
The once-deadly magical traps on the floor had all failed as well. Iron boots crushed them, and runestones crunched beneath the Drow Soldiers' feet.
The rooms on either side of the corridor were in shambles. Some male Drow servants frantically rummaged through chests and cabinets, then raced down the passage clutching gold cups, oil paintings, and other valuables.
Mithral crests of the Fryce Family had been pried off doorframes, silver candlesticks stuffed into sacks, and even the carpets on the floor rolled up and carried away.
These fine ornaments, once symbols of the family's glory, had now become spoils that lowly servants fought to seize.
And it was not just the servants. From the builds and gaits of some of the male Drow, Renato could tell that family soldiers had put away their weapons and disguised themselves as civilians. They, too, had joined the looting, plundering their former masters without a second thought.
No wonder there were hardly any of the Fryce Family's female guards in the corridor. Looking at the bloody drag marks on the floor and the corpses of female Drow stripped of their helmets, their throats slit, Renato could not help shaking his head.
This was the price of ruling through violence and fear. Once the power embodying that violence was lost, order and obedience would swiftly vanish.
Desires suppressed for years would burst forth like floodwaters through a broken dam the moment authority collapsed, tearing the former ruling class to pieces.
In a sense, without Lolth's deliberate intervention, the rule of every family in Sammoril was a castle in the air, liable to collapse in short order.
The assault team