Carla
The throng of prisoners darted glances between Carla and Ty.
"I will do whatever I can for you all. So let's begin." She lifted her chin. "First, tell me who wants to get cleaned up?" She tugged on the iron bars, her charm bracelet clinking against the metal, but the door didn't budge.
"Are you the Oracle's replacement?" a young boy with wide eyes asked.
"Not exactly. It's complicated." Carla fought not to gag at the stench of rotting flesh and urine leaking from the cells. How were these poor prisoners coping without vomiting?
"He said Zarna was dead," one of the men pointed to Ty, "and there is no one to take her place."
With a smile, she said, "That's not entirely true. I'll do whatever I can for you all."
Ty shot her a look that was between amazement and horror. "It's late." His attention shifted to the poor prisoners. "We can get them out first thing in the morning."
"What about keys? Did you find any?" Carla placed a hand on his arm, staring at him expectantly.