But at least it was cleaned each day.
Lord d’Refan couldn’t have his test subjects dying from infection, after all.
I blinked against the dim lighting, willing my eyes to adjust as I was pushed into my cell. The door closed and locked behind me before I even had the ability to throw myself onto my bed of straw.
I groaned again as the multitude of cuts on my body pulled with each movement, each breath that I took.
I lay face down on the straw and prayed to any of the gods listening for sleep to take me.
Blessedly, one was listening.
I woketo the feeling of something small and bony prodding the muscle on my right shoulder.
Groaning, I attempted to roll and swat at whatever it was, but the sensation just moved lower to my back and, eventually, my butt.
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
“Hey.” A whispered voice.
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
“Hey.” Louder this time. “I know you’re awake now.”
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
“Shtappokingme,” I grumbled, my words slurring together from both sleep and the pain of the previous session.
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
“Well, then wake up,” the voice said again.
I swatted at whatever was jabbing me and rolled over in an attempt to get it to stop.
But whatever, or whoever, it was simply tapped my arms and chest before getting my cheek.
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
A finger.
