"Breakfast," you hear the guard say the following morning, and look up to see him pushing a bowl of foul-smelling stew underneath the bars of Drazha's cell. "It's boiled tripe," he says, moving to your own cell. "Might not be at its best, though," he adds with a smile. "It's been sitting out in the sun for a few days."
As the guard leans down to put your bowl through the bars, you notice the iron ring hanging from his hip, heavy with an assortment of jangling keys.