Morning had barely broken when Cherion was brought into the capital's central square. A thick fog hung over the streets, dampening the cobblestones and turning the buildings around the plaza into blurry grey shapes.
Cherion didn't remember being dragged out of the deep subterranean cell, nor did he remember the cold iron shackles snapping locked around his ankles. His feet were numb, raw, and caked with dried mud, trailing faint smears of blood across the damp cobblestones as two heavily armored imperial guards marched him down the stone steps of the royal prison.
He could barely keep his head up. Days in complete darkness without proper food or water had stripped every ounce of strength from his legs. His thin, weakened body swayed with every step. The coarse grey prisoner's tunic hung loosely from his shoulders, scraping against his bruised collarbones.
