They put a bag back on Gil’s head and march him down sev­eral flights of stairs. His heart still races in his chest—the sound of old prison does not sound pleas­ant, but at the same time it’s a relief, com­pared to inter­ro­ga­tion. He feels a rush of hot air as they march him out­side, and then into an even hot­ter and stuffier build­ing.

He half-stumbles down a flight of curv­ing stairs. Wood creaks heav­ily, and he is thrown to the ground. Some­one cuts his cords and tears the bag off his head.

Then he hears a voice.

Gil finds him­self in a tiny cell con­sist­ing of three stone walls and a heavy wooden gate, not entirely unlike the lamashu hold­ing pens at the Cir­cus, and smelling only slightly bet­ter. The gate faces out towards a dank, cramped, torch­lit hall­way. The guard stands in the hall­way, fac­ing some­one in a cell next to Gil’s.

The guard chuck­les and then walks away, past Gil’s cell. His foot­steps clank up the wind­ing stone stair­case, and a hinged door slams shut.

Then there is only the crack­ling of the torches lin­ing the hall­way.