Chapter 124

• Dane
• Twenty-one years ago.
• The room was cold. Cold like a penetrating chill that flows into the marrow and settles down for a long. Bare stone walls, gray and unyielding, were an asset to my prison; only a flickering torch thrown high above me allowed light to spill away from them. I was a boy—some eleven or twelve years, maybe—with a pair of legs as white as the moon, suspect quaking with only the weight of manifest horror.