Eventually, the stairwell lead Akira and Zhao to a long corridor housing an assortment of rusty iron cages, of all shapes and sizes; most large and wide enough to house many souls, although they were now empty; some suspended in the air like birdcages; a few, still populated by the flesh-eaten skeletal remains of former prisoners, or ominous dried stains of blood.
"The is where we keep our worst offenders," Zhao said.
"Used to, at any rate," Akira corrected, glancing around warily as they proceeded through the dismal. "All the cages are empty now."
Zhao scrunched his face in disgust. "Many of the prisoners were Stormfleece soldiers, so they're probably celebrating as we speak."
