Water dripped from somewhere Aerion couldn't see, every drop struck with maddening regularity.
One every three seconds.
He had counted them.
He was at four hundred and seventy-two since he woke up.
The chains bit into his wrists. Thick, rusty iron, with engraved runes that burned him every time he tried to channel mana.
They had hung him from a ring embedded in the wall, high enough that his feet barely touched the ground.
His arms had gone numb a while ago.
The chamber was small and on the other side of the chamber, chained to the opposite wall, was his brother Ayres, or what was left of him.
Aerion didn't recognize him at first.
When he opened his eyes and saw that skinny figure hanging from the chains, he thought it was another prisoner.
A stranger.
Someone who had been there for weeks.
But the hair was blond and the jaw, even if thinner, had the same stubborn line as their father.
"Ayres?"
The figure lifted his head.
