On that day he’d slumped in the corner, he’d made a decision: to not let himself wither away. To get stronger, or at least try to, one day at a time.

The exercise was part of his daily routine, one he’d formulated and begun on that day five years past now, or at least that was his best guess at how long it had been. Ten years total in this windowless stone box. Without access to the sun or moons, keeping track of time was more of an art than a science. His routine also included counting aloud, quoting from his favorite lines of verse, speaking his daughter’s and wife’s names and remembering their faces, and a number of other mental and physical exercises to keep himself sharp. Or at least as sharp as was humanly possible while confined to a stone box.

It felt right to do this, not for himself but for those he’d left behind. Not because he expected to ever leave this place or see them again, but because he had the preternatural feeling that his daughter would know if he’d given up.

He pushed back to his feet as he heard the familiar shuffle of boots too tired to lift themselves all the way off the stonework approaching down the corridor. Howls and hoots and hollers followed the footfalls, growing louder with each step. Until they stopped in front of his own cell. “Here ye go, Cain,” a tired voice said. The slot in the door opened and a metal plate was pushed through.

As he accepted it, he said, “Thanks Mick. How’s the little one?” He peeked through the slot to find a familiar set of deep brown eyes beneath thick brown brows. It was all he ever saw of the man, and yet this small sliver of human connection tended to be the thing that carried him from one day to the next.

“Cute as a button, but if she don’t start sleepin’ through the night I swear it’ll be the death of me and me missus and our marriage vows.” The man blinked and yawned. “I swear I could curl up and fall asleep right on this here stone floor. Oh, sorry,” the man said, as if just realizing the error in his words.

“No offense taken. If you’re tired enough, you can get used to sleeping on anything. And you’ll get through it, I swear it. The first few months are the hardest. It will get easier.” He remembered that time in his life, when Bryony fought sleep like it was her archenemy, fists balled and pumping at either side, breaking free of the blanket cocoon they’d wrapped her in, toothless maw releasing sounds more fit for the void than the human realm. As exhausted as he’d been on those nights, he’d never loved her any less.

“From yer lips to the gods’ ears,” Mick said. “Enjoy. I threw in somethin’ a little extra fer ye.”