CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SIX * * The Dahome dungeon, which is situated below the earth, is a black, rotting hole; not even the slightest flicker of sunlight penetrates. The wet walls are slimy, covered in mould that breathes a sick, sour stench, and the chains hang from the ceilings like deadly vines. A sound— drips of water. No, not just it. Footsteps. The figure sprawled on the cold ground, whose very senses have been sharpened from being trapped in the dark for so long, can hear it. A fire torch comes into view, and the light floods the dungeon, causing rats to flee to their hiding areas; the sounds of chains rattle as tormented prisoners hope to earn the intruder's attention, their mournful cries growing louder. The figure on the cold floor at the secluded end of the dungeon gives no reaction, alone in the cramped space of his cell, the rough edges of stones bite into his skin, leaving tender bruises. His body is too weak to draw in a breath, let alone make a sound
Last Updated : 2025-04-17
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