At the bottom of the stairs there’s a narrow hallway and at the end of it is another door with a metal grate that forms a crude window, and no door handle. We crouch low and move toward the door as fast as possible.

Ash cautiously looks through the grate and drops back down to face us. He and Aarya start gesturing and pointing. It takes me a couple of seconds before I realize they’re speaking in sign language, or arguing, from the looks of it. And by the way they point, I’m fairly certain it has to do with the no-door-handle issue and how the heck we’re going to open it. But whatever the conflict, it resolves quickly and Ash pulls out a metal hook tied to a piece of black cord.

Ash counts down on his fingers—three, two, one. And Aarya pops up from her crouch. She sticks her blowpipe through the window and I hear the familiar whizzing sound of her dart. Two seconds later there’s a thud. Ash stands in the same instant, slipping the hook and cord through the iron grate. He jiggles it for a moment and pulls. Metal clicks and the door unlatches.

Ash pulls it open and we cautiously go through. We step onto the dirty stone floor, and the smell nearly knocks me over—damp rot, urine, and hay. I gag silently and inspect the cells on either side of me. We pass two that are empty and one that contains a skeleton hunched in the corner. Bones protrude from the person’s torn clothing and iron shackles hang loosely around the wrists. I turn away, wishing I had never looked in the first place. Dad, where are you?

We reach the end of the corridor and there are two archways to choose from. Ash and Aarya negotiate with sign language once more, resulting in me and Ash taking the archway on the right and Aarya and Ines taking the one on the left.

Ash and I creep along the filthy stone, and once again the absence of more guards is unnerving. My dad’s supposed to be some big prize for Jag, and yet this dungeon is practically empty. Wouldn’t Jag have this place on lockdown?

We approach a large cell on our right and my breath catches in my throat. On the far side, slumped on the floor with his arms and legs in chains and his head hanging, is my dad. I run to the cell door, gripping the wrought iron and fighting back a sob. My dad’s face and clothes are streaked with blood.