The next few days were a blur. Adrian found himself drifting in and out of consciousness. The guards brought meals, frequently soggy porridge and stale bread. It was rare for the stableboy, his witch mother, and the other prisoner to receive any meat. When they did, they were leftovers in small strips. But they were grateful for those rare moments. Nevertheless, Adrian knew that he would become weaker and weaker if it continued that way.
It was so dark in the dungeon that he could only tell day from night on the type of meal they received. It was not much of a serving but a hasty ration, plopped on a dirty plate. He wondered if Cook Hannah prepared the meals. The cook had always made sure that the servants also ate appetizing meals, perhaps not as delicious as the royals’ but healthy. T
