"How many months has it been?" Phillipe rasped, his voice hoarse as he addressed the warrior stationed outside the prison gate. His once-sharp eyes were now heavy and sunken, dulled by exhaustion and the slow decay of his strength.
Each passing day seemed to drain what little life he had left, and the creeping sense that his end was near gnawed at him relentlessly. He had never feared death, but this slow, humiliating deterioration was far worse than an instant end.
'Why hadn't Radulf come to face him?'
"I thought that bastard would at least have the guts to visit me," Phillipe muttered bitterly, letting out a dry chuckle as he leaned back and thudded the rear of his head against the cold, damp wall behind him.
"It's been a month," the warrior outside replied. "So, shut your mouth!"
