Chapter 3: Prison Time
I woke up to a loud, irritating banging sound.
"Oi, you bastard, wake up!" A gruff, loud voice pierced my eardrums.
I groaned and grabbed my pounding head as I sat up and looked around. I was in a cramped cell, the walls pressing in on me, rough stone slick with condensation, close enough that if I stretched my arms, my fingertips would scrape against both sides. The bed I'm lying on is nothing more than a slab of stone, my pillow a bundle of rags damp with something I don't want to identify. Chains rattle as I shift, and a sharp jolt of pain shoots up my arms—I'm shackled.
How amazing these situations I continue to find myself in.
"Oi, I'm not going to repeat myself. WAKE UP!" That last part was yelled.
I finally make out a robed inquisitor on the outside of my cell. The dim lighting in this shithole does nothing to help.
"I'm up, damn," I mutter angrily.
The heavy clank of metal rattles through the cell as the door's latch grinds open. The inquisitor steps inside, shadowed by the dim torchlight from the corridor beyond. The scent of stale bread and something vaguely edible fills the air. My stomach clenches. I haven't eaten since before that botched burglary.
A tray clatters onto the ground, just within reach. "Eat," the Inquisitor commands. Low, gravelly, laced now with boredom.
I look up, which was a mistake; the pounding in my head reignites, sending tears to my eyes. The man standing before me is tall, easily over 6 feet, clad in dark leather, a jagged scar cutting across his jaw. With the signature black robe marking him as an Imperial Inquisitor. His eyes, cold and unreadable, settle on me with the detached interest of a butcher examining a slab of meat.
I swallow the dryness in my throat. "And if I don't?" I say with as much pride as I could muster in my current sorry state.