The dungeon never knew dawn.
Even when the morning sun gilded the rooftops of the garrison, down in the cells there was only damp stone and torch smoke. The air hung stale, heavy with mold and rust, and every breath tasted of iron.
Aiden sat cross-legged on the straw, eyes half-closed as if meditating. But his mind was awake, sharper than the edge of any blade.
The scrape of boots came, followed by a hollow clang of keys. A guard swaggered into view, face half-lit by the torch he carried. He stopped before Aiden's cell, lips already curled in a smirk.
"Two days," the man announced, jangling the keys like a priest shaking bells. "That's all the time you've got. The Earl has called a tribunal. A proper judgment, so the people think you're given a chance." He leaned closer, his breath sour with onions and ale. "But don't get your hopes up, boy. Everyone knows how it ends."
