Iorwith stooped slightly, moving quietly forward. The halls of the prison here were dark and dim—no place for anything good or whole. Still, Iorwith could feel something good ahead, some fragment of something light and whole ahead, imprisoned here in this dark place.

He would free whoever it was. He would bring them to the light. He would prove to his god that he was still worthy of her light.

Ahead, between the bars of a cell, Iorwith saw a hunched, dirty figure, bound by chains. He stepped forward, crouching before the bars.

“Hush—do not cry.” Iorweth knelt beside the chained figure. “Help has come. I will not let you languish here any longer.”

He reached a hand between the bars, extending it to them. He felt great concern for their well-being, seeing their battered form and beleaguered expression.

“Who has bound you here?” He asked, his voice quiet. “Who has imprisoned you?”