Isla
MY HEAD THROBS AND MY BREATHE SMELLS FOUL. I'm totally disoriented and chained to the wall of this stone prison, this leaky cell of the dungeon. Though tomorrow is New Year's Eve, the new year marks the beginning of a new season — the Floral Season but the air is still thick with humidity of the Torrid and my skin is sticky and clammy with sweat.
Next to me is a bowl of a creamy watery broth and though my tummy churns and grumbles, I won't give in and eat that disgusting looking broth. It has a sour stench, and it seems like it has been here since the last prisoner. The spoon that lodges in the broth is coated with white crusty something, just looking at it makes me shudder.
Two statue-like soldiers guard my cell. They haven't so much as shuffled their feet since I woke up. Are the
