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guard opened the heavy wood door and led Rianna down the long, dank corridor to Aiden’scell. Low burning torches did little to take away from the bleakness. The foul air, heavy with despair and want, urine and excrement and filth, assaulted her senses. She had to hold up a bit of her cloak to cover her face to keep from retching.
    In the first cell they passed, a man was huddled in the corner, pulling at his long, filthy hair. In the next, several men were scattered about the small space. Some slept, while others stared at her blankly as she walked by.
    Her heart ached for these poor souls, forced to live under such horrid conditions. It also ached with the knowledge that this could have been Aiden’s fate if she hadn’t intervened. Or even her own had she ever been caught stealing food for survival.
    As if he could read her mind, the guard said, “Don’t feel too sorry for ‘em. Murderers and thieves they are for the most part.”
    Keeping her head down, she did not respond. She, too, could be considered a thief. There had been more than one occasion in the past year whereby she was forced to steal a loaf of bread in order to eat.
    The guard stopped just outside the last cell on their left, inserted the key, and opened the door.
    As much as she wanted to take a deep breath to steel her nerves, the air stank too much.
    Aiden was asleep on his back in a pile of moldy rushes. One arm was flung over his face, the other spread out wide. She reckoned he only slept peacefully because he was drunk.
    The mud had caked on his skin, his clothes, and his hair. A long tear across his tunic exposed a bit of blonde hair on a hard chest. Wanting to be away from this place as quickly as possible, she fell on her knees at his side.
    “Aiden.” Her voice cracked, filled with tears of sorrow on his behalf. “Aiden,” she whispered again, daring to place a hand on his shoulder. “Wake up, please. ’Tis me, Rianna.”

    * * *
    C ertain he was that ’twas only a whisky induced dream, Aiden rolled over, hoping to escape it. No matter how much drink he consumed, no matter how hard he prayed to the gods, he could never quite escape the dreams, the nightmares that had been haunting him for more than a decade.
    But why was he dreaming of a lass he’d not laid eyes on since his childhood? And why did she sound older in the dream? ’Twas the gods playing with his heart and mind again, like a cat toying with a mouse. Just one more way for them to take away what little bit of his mind that remained intact.
    In that place between reality and dreams, he heard the sweet voice speaking to him. “Aiden, I’ve come to take ye home.”
    Home? He had no home. Hadn’t had a home since he was nine, before his sweet mum had passed away.
    Anger rose rapidly as a warm hand pressed against his cheek. ’Twas the gods, tempting him again, trying to get him to believe he could have something more than a life filled with blackness and death. Offering the sweet dream, the warm hope one moment only to take it away the next. He batted the hand away, cursed the gods, and curled himself into a protective ball and willed himself to dream of nothing.

    * * *
    R ianna could not understand what he’d said, but the underlying feeling was clear. He was angry. But beneath the anger, she had a sense of deep sadness, of something bleak and abysmal — something frightening. For a tiny moment, she questioned her plan but quickly pushed the thought aside. Aiden had been the only true friend she’d ever had as a child. To this very day, she felt she owed him a lifetime of gratitude, for he had taught her there were still good, kind people in this world. People who did not care about your lineage or whether or not you were poor.
    “Aiden, please wake up. I need to take ye away from this place, away from the goal. Let me take ye home,” she said as she caressed his cheek. “Let me help ye.”
    Slowly, drunkenly, he opened his eyes. Flashes of pain, distrust, and anger