The silence in the bowels of the ancient prison had never seemed so oppressive. Not a cry, not an alarm, not even a hum of human voices - only the dull, rhythmic echo of the pickaxe against limestone, Mordred's steady breathing condensing in the tunnel's icy air, and that subtle tension gleaming in his eyes like a blade at rest, ready to slit the throat of the first danger.
Days had passed since he had injected his blood into Adrien's frail body. Seven days exactly. He was counting. He always counted.
