Time is such a funny thing. It feels longer when observed, yet shorter when it passes unnoticed. Minutes spent waiting for someone can seem like hours. Years of your life, when looking back, feel like mere seconds. Hours spent in a dark room, knowing the next time you see light will be when you're facing death—an eternity. Yet when I heard footsteps echoing down the hall, time seemed all too short. The sharp click of lock and key, the dull thump of the deadbolt sliding into the door—it all happened too quickly. The creak of hinges, the rush of relatively fresh air through the widening crack of the door. Well, as fresh as air gets in the bowels of this smog-forsaken city. Still, it was better than the stale air I'd been breathing for the last three days.
Light raced across the floor, revealing my surroundings for the first time. A small bench that doubled as a bed, with a single thin blanket serving as both padding and warmth—though it helped with neither. A clock on the wall, its constant ticking nearly driving me insane, mocking ever second streching them to an eternity. A toilet in the far corner, which, luckily, I'd found when I first woke in this room. And last, a table against the wall with a small slot through which they pushed a tray of food and water. Never with any consistency, and never enough to keep hunger at bay. But what else would you expect for someone convicted of murder and destined for The Pit? I am Zephyroin Stormveil. This is the legend of Stromshade