Chapter Eight
Bargaining Chip
Feoras sat alone in the darkness, inspecting his various wounds, sniffing them for signs of mortification. His captors barely gave him enough water to survive. There had been little to spare for washing. He had done the best he could, sometimes using his own saliva to wash away the dirt and blood before binding his injuries with tattered strips torn from the remains of his cloak.
He didn’t think any of his wounds smelled bad, but it was difficult to tell for certain. He had been trapped in this small, underground chamber for some time now. He had no idea how many days had passed since his arrival. His scalp was itchy beneath his dirty, silver braids, and his clothes and skin smelled musty and sour with unwashed sweat. If any of his wounds had turned, the sc
