The air in that room was always suffocating. The small window, covered in thick dust, barely allowed sunlight to enter, and the cold of the stone floor bit deeper than any prison cell.
Arzael awoke there, his dim red eyes staring at the dull ceiling. His head still felt heavy, his body weak, and his stomach roared with emptiness. Only a thin piece of cloth separated him from the hard floor that seemed to drain away every ounce of warmth from his body.
"…strange… it feels like I've had a very long dream…" he muttered hoarsely.
He tried to get up, supporting his frail, scarred body with trembling arms. His legs shook, knees nearly buckling under the weight of his own body. But he forced himself to stand.
His stomach growled violently. The pain made him bite his lower lip until the metallic taste of blood spread across his tongue. He glanced toward the rotten wooden door, then staggered toward it.
