Adrian had never been to the dungeon. He could only guess that nobody really went there. It was a place for enemies of the state, for torture – a slow death. Ordinary criminals faced the humiliation of being placed in stocks, thrown at with rocks and rotten fruit.
The dungeon might hide your shame, but it was worse – much worse. The stableboy smelled it, felt it, and saw it. The air was musty and dank, the floors dripping with liquids he could only guess at. Rusty bars prevented anyone from escaping – if there was anyone there except for him.
All his life was spent in the stables, in his secret cabin, the servants' quarters, and the grounds. He would sometimes get the chance to see inside the castle during special feasts where servants were required to help and invited to dine, and he
