The shackles were an excellent idea.
For keeping anyone constrained who wasn’t Hector Gabourel, that is.
Dropping the bolt to the floor, Hector unfastened the remaining locks even faster than the first. The iron was thick, but the manacle old-fashioned, the gears inside simple to manipulate. When they finally fell free, he rubbed at the raw skin on his wrist and lurched to his feet.
The floor swayed beneath him. His hand shot out to steady himself, but the only things to grab onto in the windowless room were the hooks a foot from the ground where the shackles were still fixed, a tall urn in the corner that remained motionless, and the handle on the narrow door.
On a whim, he tested the latter. It turned freely in his grasp.
Hector snorted. Whoever had imprisoned him really was an i***
