One more week passed in the darkness of the cell.
Nero sat against the cold stone wall, his remaining hand resting on his knee, his eyes staring at nothing. At this point, the hunger had become something he couldn't ignore anymore, a constant gnawing presence in his gut that wore at the extremes of his mind.
The Templars had not come. Not even once during the entire week.
That means there were no rations, no water, absolutely nothing. He was left to stew in the silence, the dripping moisture from the walls and the cold seeping into his bones.
He had eaten the last rat three days ago. Since then, nothing. The dungeon seemed empty of them now, as though they had sensed something and fled, or perhaps he had simply killed them all over the past weeks. Either way, the result was the same.
Now, Nero was starving.
