The next few days were like a drawn-out nightmare. Voran was kept covered under the same foul hood for what seemed like days. He wasn’t allowed to remove it even when taken outside the camp to relieve himself. During the day, he simply sat in place, trying not to notice the stench of the bag on his head. All his other senses were accordingly sharpened, and nothing they perceived was promising. He heard nothing but Karilan, which he barely understood at all. He felt nothing but the bonds about his wrists, which cut into his skin and quickly started to itch and burn. He saw only dim shapes through the burlap, but he could tell that all of them were wearing swords.
They gave him no food, only foul-smelling water. Still, every time he drank, he felt a little bit of hope come back to him. Some
