Pain. Nothing but pain. Nothing but blackness in a cold, hard cell.
His friends were all dead, brutally killed. He had nothing left but his own life. They would take that too.
His whole body ached, right down to his bones. It especially hurt where the electric whip had broken skin. The crude bandage placed on the wound did nothing to help ease the pain. The blood had dried and caked onto his back. A few droplets still dripped to the floor.
He didn't know how much time had passed, how long he had laid there in the dark. He listened to his heartbeat, trying to keep his eyes open as he thought.
No matter how much they had tortured him, they couldn't get him to reveal his wings. They eventually assumed that he had none. They were the only pride he had left, and he wouldn't give them up without a fight.
He wouldn't give up his life without a fight. A fight. That's exactly what they wanted. A fight. That's why they hadn't killed him with the rest. He had fought the hardest of all. And he would die for it.
They would put him in the arena tomorrow and pit him against some monstrous demon beast, or perhaps a traitor to the cause. They'd weakened him so that he could hardly defend himself. He knew how it would go. He would have his armor and his sword. Even if he won, they would send in more opponents until he was killed. Nobody could or would help him.
He knew it all, but he could do nothing about it.
The door opened. His time had come.
