In the depths of a pitch-black prison, Gaxa hung limply from heavy iron chains, his body battered and broken from days of relentless torment. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the only sound was the slow, agonizing drip of water seeping through the cold, stone walls. Gaxa's once-proud form was now a shadow of its former self, his skin pale and gaunt, stretched tight over bones that jutted out sharply from his emaciated frame. His clothes, tattered and torn, clung to him like a second skin, soaked with sweat and blood.
He was dangerously dehydrated, his lips cracked and dry, his throat a burning desert with every shallow breath he took. The wounds that covered his body, both old and new, throbbed with a pain that never seemed to fade, a constant reminder of his suffering. He had been given only enough food to keep him alive, a pitiful amount of stale bread and murky water that did little to nourish his starving body.
