"Don't kill me!"
"Huff, puff..."
Viscount Luton awoke from the nightmare, suddenly bolting upright and gasping for air.
He nervously touched his neck and only relaxed after confirming that it wasn't severed by a guillotine.
But soon, Viscount Luton recalled that bloody memory, the head that could not find peace in death, and those fanatical faces.
Instantly, he retched once more.
"Public trial..."
"They've all gone mad, everyone's gone mad..."
Viscount Luton kept shaking his head, muttering to himself.
He looked around wearily, seeing the hard stone floor beneath him, cold iron bars to his left, and walls stained with grime and blood.
He recognized this place.
This was the dungeon of Stratholme Fortress, used to detain those who broke the law or street vagrants.
No noble of the North had ever stayed here.
But compared to his elders, Luton considered himself fortunate, at least he had kept his head.
Thinking of this, he grew anxious once more.
