Time lost all meaning in the deep dungeons beneath the royal palace.
There were no windows to mark the passage of day or night, only the slow, rhythmic dripping of water somewhere down the stone corridor and the freezing moisture creeping through the thick granite floor. Cherion lay curled on his side on a bed of damp, rotting straw, his torn silk robes stained with dirt, dried blood, and sweat. His hands were bound tightly behind his back with thick iron cuffs that chafed his wrists raw whenever he shifted.
He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the pitch black. It could have been three days, or perhaps a week. His throat was parched, burning with raw thirst, and his stomach cramped painfully from days without proper food. Every bone in his body ached from the bitter chill radiating off the stone walls.
