Escape from Blackstone Dungeon
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The Seventh Cell
Alex wakes on the floor of , cold iron biting into his wrists. At 30, he has survived war, winter and betrayal, but the silence beyond the bars feels worse than any battlefield.
A gaoler's slate identifies the prisoner as “Alex, male, level 7.” Someone has drawn a red cross beside the name.
Water falls somewhere in the dark: one drop, then another, measuring out the night.
As Alex rises, a loose stone shifts beneath his boot. There may be something hidden under the straw.
A cold draught carries the smell of rain from a passage below.