It generally wasn’t anything good.
And so when the guard, whose face was hardly visible, stopped outside of his cell, Hunt braced himself.
“Get up, Hardwood.” The guard’s voice grumbled and rattled at the same time.
Hunt pushed himself up slowly, and, knees weaker than he’d like, he gathered himself.
Less than a month, and the isolation was already taking a toll on his body. He could exercise every day, but he couldn’t help but grow weak with only one meal a day. Already, his clothes—the same he’d arrived in—hung looser.
The lock on his cell clicked, and then the door made a sharp squeaking sound as the guard pulled it open.
Hunt warily stepped out, and when the guard went to shove him a little, he stumbled. The one time he’d reacted with the slightest aggression, three other guards had rushed in.
Hunt was only now recovering from the bruises.
Rather than protest, Hunt placed one foot in front of the other.
Eighteen days, but he was learning.
The guard unlocked another door. Hunt stepped through, and as he climbed the narrow flight of stairs, he inhaled.
The air was only slightly less rancid, but it was enough that he could breathe just a little better.
And against his better judgment, he felt an inkling of hope. The ships could not have arrived yet. He would not know freedom for months—possibly years.
Hunt cleared his throat. “Where…?” His voice was hoarse from disuse. “Where are we going?”
“You have a friend.” The guard’s laugh sounded almost resentful as he unlocked a third door.
Hunt covered his eyes to protect them from the bright light. But he just as quickly opened them, squinting, tears burning from too many days spent in darkness.
He ignored them, though, and filled his lungs with air.
Fresh air. Not the dank scent of human refuse mingled with sitting water and dirt.
“Follow me.” This time, the door opened to outside. Not to freedom, but to a courtyard Hunt remembered from the day he’d arrived.
Hunt prepared himself for the worst.
Having been locked up with no trial, no judge or jury, he comprehended the extent of Malum’s power.
Had the duke changed his mind? And then Hunt nearly tripped when he imagined himself headed for the gallows.
“Through here.” More locks. More iron gates. “Godspeed and all that.”
In less than the blink of an eye, Hunt found himself standing on the side of a neglected street.
Outside the prison gates. His knees nearly gave out on him.
He was Free.
Hunt scrubbed both his palms down his face. He might question his sanity but for the shaking of his hands.
A few feet away, an elegant carriage sat as though waiting for him. Arms crossed, a vaguely familiar gentleman stood watching him.
But Hunt couldn’t place him. Judging by the clothing, gleaming Hessians, and the set of his shoulders, however, it was obvious that the man’s status equaled his own.
In his previous life, anyhow.
