Chapter Twenty-Seven

Demetrius ambled slowly down the gloomy corridor, heading towards the servants' bathrooms. It was a small, damp, and dreary stone room decorated with mildew, which peppered the cracks and crevices like tiny green clouds.

When one pressed a protruding brick, a cascade of water poured from a hole near the ceiling. It was cold. The crack above it, serving as a window, provided no warmth, and the light needed to fight its way past steel bars.

How anyone could reach the window, let alone escape, was anyone's guess. Even the most starved souls couldn't squeeze through the narrow aperture.

Demetrius had avoided using it so far, making do with a wet rag or a small water bowl. But the stench of the horses clung to him, and those methods wouldn't suffice.

He shuddered and pushed the door open, the hinges groaning in protest, allowing the damp, cold air to hit him full in the face in retaliation.