The chains thudded against the stony floor as the slaves were slowly led back to their cells. The silence was heavy, charged with resentment, restrained hatred and a dull, dangerous rage, ready to erupt at any moment. Mordred advanced slowly, feeling the metallic weight of his entrails as a physical extension of his oppression, each step a bitter reminder of his powerlessness.
When he finally found his cell, his gaze slid over the damp, familiar, oppressive walls. The chains were brutally removed by a particularly evil-looking dragon-guard, who took care to give him a scornful look before slamming the door violently behind him. Mordred found himself alone in the half-light, his wrists still sore from the cold bite of the metal.
