A cold cell in a colder tower. The stone beneath him was slick with blood. The taunting cries of his jailors echoed off the walls and around his head like a nightmare from which he could not wake.
Day after day after day after day after day. The same torture on repeat. A stubborn refusal to eat until night fell and he wouldn't be seen.
A change in the baseline. Something new. Another form tossed into the cell next to his. New taunts, new jeers. He settled in for the worst.
Silence.
Sudden silence.
Then a voice from the next cell over that made his blood run colder than anything in the tower ever had.
“Amathlan? Is that you? How blessed could my luck be?!”
