Dusk settled over the prison like a funeral shroud as Tristan found himself herded back to the cramped confines of the communal cell. The day's brutal labor beneath the merciless sun had extracted its toll, leaving him exhausted to his very marrow. As he slumped against the cold stone wall, a hoarse whisper cut through the gathering gloom.
"Psst, new blood," came the tremulous voice of the elderly prisoner who had spoken of Rafe. His rheumy eyes darted about like trapped birds. "A word, if you please."
Tristan approached cautiously. "Speak your piece."
The old man's gnarled fingers clutched at Tristan's sleeve. "That witch," he hissed through yellowed teeth. "She's taken a shine to you, hasn't she?"
A bitter laugh escaped Tristan's throat. "If you call setting monsters on me 'taking a
