Prison Time 2.0

The iron door groans as it swings open, and for the first time in days, I step beyond the confines of my cell. My legs protest, stiff and weak, but I force them to move. At least my headache has subsided; that's a plus.

An Inquisitor grips my arm, dragging me forward after he unlocked the chains binding me, while another walks behind me silent, watchful; neither is the guard I was accustomed to seeing bring me my daily slop. How cliché. 

The air outside the cell is thick with dampness and decay, carrying the scent of mildew, sweat, and old blood. The corridor ahead is narrow, carved from dark stone, its walls lined with iron sconces flickering with pale, sickly flames. The light barely reaches the arched ceiling, where long cracks slither like veins through the rock. Every step we take echoes, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the dungeon. 

I take a breath, swallowing the dryness in my throat. The water I've been drinking did almost nothing to quench my thirst. 

"Where are you taking me?" My voice is hoarse, raw from days of silence.

No response. The Inquisitors keep marching, their grip on my arms like iron.

I grit my teeth. "At least tell me who's waiting for me. I know it's some elite."

The Inquisitor to my right exhales sharply, annoyed. Then, without warning, a fist slams into my stomach.

Pain detonates through my ribs, and I double over, choking on air that won't come. My knees almost buckle, but the guard yanks me upright before I can fall.

"Shut up and walk, boy," he growls. "Or next time, I won't hold back."

I suck in a shaky breath, biting back a curse. 

As we ascend a winding staircase, the air changes. The scent of rot gives way to something sharper, tinged with burned incense and hot iron. When we emerge into the halls above, the darkness of the dungeon is replaced by towering walls of marble. The floors are polished stone, reflecting the flickering lights like pools of liquid shadow. 

We pass more inquisitors, their black robes trailing behind them like spilled blood. Their hoods conceal their faces. They don't even bother to acknowledge me as I'm hauled like property through the halls. 

The guards haul me down yet another hallway, and we burst outside into what looks like an alley.

The first blast of fresh air hits me like a fist to the chest. Cold and crisp. After days of breathing nothing but damp stone and the stink of my own sweat, the outside air is almost too much; it floods my lungs, sharp and biting, making me cough. For a moment, I just stand there, blinking against the sudden light, my body swaying as if the wind itself is trying to knock me over.

"Don't get too comfortable," one of the inquisitors sneers, shoving me forward. "You still smell like a rotting corpse."

I don't argue. I probably do.

They lead me to a stone platform, where a rusted pipe juts out from the wall. "Take off the rags you call clothes", one of the Inquisitors orders. I do as I'm told, biting back a string of curses that will do nothing but get me hit again. A second later, a torrent of ice-cold water slams into me. I gasp, staggering under the force, my muscles seizing from the sudden chill. The water is filthy and stagnant, reeking of metal and mold, but it still washes away the grime and dirt clinging to my skin.

"Hold still," the second inquisitor orders. A long, wooden brush scrapes against my arms, my back, and my chest, rough, merciless, stripping away layers of filth and probably half my skin with it. I grit my teeth, refusing to flinch, even when they scrub at the bruises still blooming across my ribs.

"Wouldn't want to present him to an elite smelling like a sewer rat," the first one chuckles.

I spit out a mouthful of water. "You could've just let me wash myself, perv."

A sharp slap to the back of my head answers that. "Shut up and lift your arms; we have no time for your mouth."

I do as I'm told, if only to get this over with. The moment they're satisfied, they toss a bundle of clothes at my feet: plain black trousers, a high-collared tunic, and a dark coat. No chains, no rags. A prisoner's past was wiped clean with a change of clothes.

"Get dressed," one of the inquisitors snaps. "You're about to meet someone far above your station. Try not to embarrass yourself."

I grab the tunic, my fingers numb from the cold. My body still aches from the lack of nutrition and whatever injuries I sustained from the blond-haired prick however many days ago. 

After I finished dressing, the Inquisitors once again deemed it necessary to manhandle me. They led me through the door we came out of and dragged me through endless hallways. I'm not positive because I've never been this far inside the city, but I'm assuming that I'm in the garrison out here in Lont where the Inquisitors and other soldiers are stationed. We pass a few servants on our amazing and friendly journey through the castle, but they pay me no mind. 

Finally the guards push me forward, past a massive iron door embossed with the symbol of the Empire. A massive serpent snaked up the door with its head wrapping around its body. As we moved through the corridors, I finally realized that the torchlight I had been accustomed to had been replaced with hanging lanterns, which cast a nice and cozy lighting on the corridors. 

"How fancy," I mutter under my breath. 

A resounding slap to the back of my head sends me reeling. 

You bastards. I seethe silently. 

"Shut up. We are here." 

The guards stop in front of a massive wooden door, its dark surface polished to a near mirror sheen. Deeply carved into the center is the same Imperial symbol; we had just passed the same coiled snake with fangs bared, its body twisted into an endless knot. The wood around it is scorched, as if seared into place rather than carved, giving the serpent an unnatural depth, like it might slither free at any moment.

One of the guards raises a gloved fist and knocks three sharp, deliberate raps that echo down the silent corridor. He steps forward, straightening his posture before speaking.

"We have brought the prisoner," he announces, his voice measured but firm. There is no urgency, no hesitation. Just the normal routine.

Silence.

Then, from beyond the door, a voice smooth, calm, and utterly unreadable.

"Send him in."