It's dark. That's all Crescendo knows. Dark and cramped and humid, as if the air itself is taunting his thirst.
God only knows how long he's been in here; the prince doesn't bother counting, and anyway, there is no daytime to count with. The meals come irregularly, infrequently, and the pains in his stomach tell him they are only feeding him enough to keep him alive.
Why bother? Why not just kill him? Crescendo has the sickening feeling that they're toying with him, trying to break him, and the longer he stays in this darkness, the more profoundly he realizes that he is alone. There is no one out there to save him, or he would have been saved already. What little time he had—what little time he'd hoped his royal blood could buy him—is running out.
The prison used to be crammed full of other people, other war criminals like himself, but one by one by one the bodies have been carried out, dead from hunger or disease. As far as he knows, he is the only one left, and Crescendo is sure his will be the next corpse buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.