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It was indeed a lovely hole into which they tossed Ilarion. Complete with musty stench, old, unwashed slop bucket, and flea-infested pile of straw.

Ilarion counted himself fortunate at this stage to have avoided anything worse than a beating from the Czelnik’s finest guardsmen before being consigned to the cell where he would pretend to be half-dead until he made his escape.

For the first thing he did when the door of his cell had been shut was to settle himself in the center...