Chapter 359 Prison [1]

This was the final place Darion wanted to inspect before ending his tour of Vrethka. After seeing the treasury, livestock, armory, food stores, farmland, housing, and barracks, he realized there was one part of Vrethka he had deliberately avoided: the people Dross kept imprisoned.

He had been putting it off. Not consciously, not intentionally, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he had known this would be the hardest part of the tour.

The wealth and resources were easy to look at. The farmland and livestock were productive. The armory and granaries were impressive. But the prison, the prisons were where the ugly truth of Dross’s rule would be most visible. The people he had locked away, forgotten, left to rot.

Darion asked the surviving high-ranking warrior where Vrethka’s prisoners were kept. The warrior hesitated noticeably. His body stiffened. Darion noticed immediately.

He asked again, more firmly. "Where are the prisoners kept?"

The warrior eventually spoke, his voice low. "There’s a prison compound on the eastern side of the settlement. It’s separate from the main buildings. Walled off."

Darion nodded. "Lead the way."

They made their way toward the eastern side of Vrethka, away from the main settlement. The streets became narrower, the buildings sparser.

Eventually, they reached a high stone wall that enclosed a large compound. The wall was thick and imposing, its surface weathered by years of exposure. There was a single gate, heavy and reinforced, guarded by two warriors.

The guards noticed Darion approaching. Their bodies stiffened, their hands tightening on their weapons. But they didn’t challenge him. They had heard what had happened. They knew who he was.

The warrior stepped forward. "Open it. The King wishes to inspect the prison."

The guards obeyed immediately. They unlocked the heavy gate and pulled it open, revealing a dark courtyard beyond. Darion stepped inside, the warrior following close behind.

The compound was larger than he expected. Several buildings stood within the walls: barracks for guards, storage rooms, and the main prison block itself.

The prison block was a low, squat structure, its walls thick, its windows small and barred. The smell hit Darion before he even reached the door. Rot, sweat, waste, old blood, mold, and the unmistakable smell of people who had been trapped for far too long.

He instinctively covered his nose. He looked at the warrior. The warrior didn’t say anything. He clearly knew exactly what Darion was about to see.

They entered the prison block and began descending. The further they went, the darker and colder the passage became. The clean stone of the upper compound gradually disappeared, replaced by rough stone walls, damp floors, and narrow passages.

Torches became fewer and weaker, their flames flickering in the stale air. The light grew dimmer with each step, the shadows deeper.

They finally reached a large underground chamber containing rows of cells. Darion’s expression changed immediately.

The cells were cramped and filthy. Some barely had enough room for a person to lie down, their dimensions barely larger than a coffin. Straw that was once used as bedding had become rotten and soaked with moisture, its surface dark and slick.

Water dripped from the ceiling, the sound echoing through the chamber like a slow, steady heartbeat. The floors were stained with years of accumulated filth, the stone dark with grime and waste.

Buckets used as toilets had either overflowed or hadn’t been emptied properly, their contents spilling onto the floor.

There were almost no proper blankets or clothes. Some prisoners were chained directly to the walls, their wrists raw and bleeding. Others were too weak to even stand when Darion approached.

The air was almost unbearable. Darion could taste it on his tongue, could feel it coating his throat.

Dross hadn’t just imprisoned people. He had abandoned them.

Darion imagined what it would have been like if he had been captured and put in one of these cells. Imagine if it was him on the other side of those bars.

Imagine if he had been the one thrown into the darkness, left to rot, abandoned by everyone who might have cared. He imagined the cold stone beneath his body, the damp air filling his lungs, the hunger gnawing at his stomach. He imagined the silence, the loneliness, the slow realization that no one was coming to save him.

He thought about how close he had come to that fate. If he had been captured during the battle, if he had been overwhelmed by Vrethka’s warriors, if he had been dragged into this dungeon instead of standing on the other side of the bars.

He would have been just another prisoner, another forgotten soul, another body left to rot in the darkness. No one would have known what happened to him. No one would have cared. He would have become a ghost, a memory, a name whispered in the dark.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

Several prisoners noticed Darion and slowly approached the bars. At first, they were cautious, their eyes wide, their movements slow. They didn’t know whether the arrival of the Necromancer meant something better or something worse.

They had heard the stories, had heard the rumors. The man who had killed Dross, who had defeated the army, who had stood in the middle of the settlement and commanded everyone to bow. Was he here to free them? Or was he here to finish what Dross had started?

Then one prisoner recognized him. Word spread through the dungeon like wildfire.

"The new lord..."

"He’s the one who defeated Dross..."

Some immediately began begging. Their voices rose in a chorus of desperation, their hands reaching through the bars, their fingers grasping at empty air. "Please, m’lord! Please, help us!" Others simply asked for water, their voices cracked and dry. "Water... please... just a drop..." A few prisoners were so weak that they could barely speak, their words nothing more than whispers, their eyes pleading.

Darion saw people who had clearly been neglected for months or years. He noticed old wounds, scars that had never healed properly, missing teeth, malnourished bodies.

Their skin was pale, their cheeks hollow, their eyes sunken. This wasn’t simply a prison. Dross had allowed these people to deteriorate. He had left them here to rot, to die slowly, to become forgotten.