I'm going to die tomorrow morning.
That's what the Inquisitors tell me, anyway, when they visit my cell. I've been here for weeks--I know this only because I've been counting the number of times my meals come.
One day. Two days.
Four days. A week.
I stopped counting after that. The hours run together, an endless train of nothingness, filled with different slants of light and the shiver of cold, wet stone, the pieces of my sanity, the disjointed whispers of my thoughts.
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