Chapter 3: The Choice
Charles trudged down the stairs with his shoulders slumped. The second his foot hit the hallway, the scrawny man greeted him with a death glare.
He didn't say a word this time, just pointed at the filthy wall with a sharp gesture and tossed the damp rag at him. Charles caught it mid-air and, without a peep, got to work.
The rest of the morning blurred by in a haze of effort and sweat. He scrubbed walls, hauled buckets of grimy water, and swept a floor caked with dirt and pebbles.
The man didn't help much—just barked orders and griped every time Charles missed a spot.
By the time they finished, the sun was high, and Charles's arms felt like lead.
He was wiped out, but at least they'd knocked out most of it.
Lunchtime rolled around. Charles trailed the scrawny man, who was speed-walking toward a wider hallway.
He had no clue where they were headed, but figured sticking close might score him some food and a breather.
They reached the entrance to a rustic dining hall—long wooden tables and the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting through the air.
Charles's stomach growled, but before he could step inside, a hand stopped him cold.
"What're you doing here, Rian?" said a burly guy blocking the doorway. He had a scruffy beard and a grease-stained gray tunic. His eyes raked over Charles with disgust.