If despair had a scent, it would be sweat, piss, and damp, stale air.If hope had a face, it would look like stone walls lit by moonlight seeping in from a single rectangular frame with thick iron bars a meter above one’s head.And if death made a sound, it’d be a sharp, echoing sound of heels clacking along the dirty stone floor at a relaxed pace.Sylvia despised all three. She sat on the floor, hugging herself, with a moldy patch of straw between her and the grimy stones.Goosebumps had risen all over her skin from the freezing winter night and the incessant blowing of the wind through the small window. The dress she wore provided some warmth due to its many layers, but it was hardly enough to stave off the cold.She’d lost count of how long she had been detained. No one came to visit her, and the guards on patrol simply passed her by.Cold, starved, and humiliated—Sylvia believed herself to have reached a new low. Despite that, she held a sliver of hope that her husband, Duke Alec
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