Dampness crept through the thin fabric of Veyr's shirt, a chill that had become so familiar he scarcely noticed it anymore.
He sat motionless on the narrow stone bench, back pressed against the cold wall of his cell, counting his own shallow breaths in the gloom.
Twenty-three... twenty-four... twenty-five...
How long had he been here? The days had melted into one another, marked only by the changing of torches in the sconces outside his cell. Three torch changes meant one day. Or was it four? The rhythm of time had become as uncertain as everything else.
Fragments of memory crashed against him like waves, Soren kneeling before the Inquisitors, the impossible moment when the Flame bent toward him instead of consuming him, the look of absolute shock on the marble-faced Inquisitor's features, the screams and chaos that followed.
Then darkness. Being dragged away while the Cathedral itself seemed to groan and shudder around them.
