Now, he half-crawled, half-wormed his way over to the source of his cell’s floor of slime: a crack in the wall through which water continuously trickled. Using his tongue, he licked it clean, relishing the bit of moisture that slaked his thirst. Another line of brackish water replaced the first, and he lapped that up too, repeating this process several times until even the effort required to hold himself up became too much, at which point he slumped in the corner, breathing heavily.

I could just stop eating, stop drinking, he thought. He knew the guards would force-feed him if they noticed, but if he managed to hide it well enough, perhaps it would be too late before they realized what was happening and he would just…disappear. Would anyone in the world notice? He grunted. Of course they will. The news would travel from east to west, north to south: The Fire Eater is dead! Huzzah! Celebrations rather than funerals would probably be held to mark the occasion.

Not that he would blame them. Once a person was painted a villain, whether the label was wrongly or rightly applied, they would wear it for the rest of their life.

He wasn’t feeling sorry for himself, for he knew he’d made mistakes to earn all of this, but that didn’t stave off the misery in which he was mired. And yet…

“Why do I keep fighting?” He spoke the question aloud, though there was no one save the rats within earshot to hear it. It didn’t matter, as the question was for himself. Sometimes he filled the silence with an endless stream of words, more than he’d ever spoken before. They said that talking to oneself was one of the first signs of madness, but to him its purpose was the opposite. For if he didn’t have conversation, even if it was only with himself, then the silence would surely be the thing to drive him mad.

Sometimes it helped.

Sometimes it didn’t.

“I keep fighting because…,” he started, trying to answer his own question, his mind spinning with fatigue and malnutrition and senses dulled by time and darkness.

“Because…”

Images shimmered into his mind, not the fiery nightmares of the Nightdawn that usually appeared whenever he thought too hard, but memories of better times, wondrous times…

Ninety-nine years earlier

The Rocklands, Lostwood

“And I just…drink it?” Cora asked, eyeing the vial of glowing liquid.

Cainan was using every bit of his self-control to hold the smile off of his face. He’d been doing so all day as he’d watched this woman experience the many firsts that the Rocklands had to offer. Cora, on the other hand, had never stopped smiling, as though soaking it all up had the side effect of permanently curling her lips upward at the edges.

And through it all, not once had she shown any signs of nervousness or discomfort. Even now, when all the Forsworn were watching her intently as she officially became one amongst their ranks.