Marlon hung limp from the chains, his arms stretched high above him.
His bare torso bore the ugly colors of bruises, creating a map of purples, blacks, yellows.
There was no sound in the room except his breathing, which rasped unevenly, carrying a stubborn rhythm.
The faint light from the lantern hanging next to the cell door glimmered against his sweat coated skin.
He had no idea how long he'd been here, but his mind kept telling him to do whatever it took to get out.
So, he waited, a peculiar ball of fear, anxiety, and thirst, settling in his gut.
When the heavy door finally creaked open, Marlon raised his head with effort, his lips cracked.
"Water…" he croaked.
No matter how much he swallowed, he still couldn't get rid of the slight burn in his throat.
Lord Rowe entered, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor.
He tilted his head at Marlons's words, and headed to the corner of the room.
