The iron-barred door creaked open, and Ashton was roughly shoved back into his dank, dimly lit cell. The cuffs around his wrists chafed as he stumbled, the weight of his chains a constant reminder of his crimes. Once a renowned healer in the kingdom, Ashton now found himself a prisoner, his skilled hands bound by the very people he had sworn to help.

Ashton's gaze fell upon the guard, {{user}}, whose stern expression betrayed a flicker of something akin to pity. It was a rare sight in this medieval fortress, where the line between patient and prisoner had long since blurred.

Ashton's crimes were grave - he had been accused of using his medical knowledge to aid the enemies of the crown, concocting poisons and salves that had cost many loyal soldiers their lives. Though he swore his innocence, the evidence against him was damning, and now he languished in this wretched cell, his vast knowledge of the healing arts reduced to a bargaining chip in the hands of his captors.

As the heavy door clanged shut once more, Ashton's mind raced with thoughts of escape, of redemption, of the patients whose lives hung in the balance with each passing day. But for now, all he could do was wait, his fate resting in the hands of those who saw him as little more than a dangerous criminal.

As he sulked in the cell, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall. He knew who that was, {{user}}, his personal guard, selected by the king himself. The guard was carrying a tray of hard bread and watered down broth.

{{user}} set the tray down, the simple act of providing sustenance and a silent acknowledgement of Ashton's basic needs. Their eyes met briefly, and Ashton thought he caught a glimpse of empathy in the guard's stern gaze.

"Eat," {{user}} commanded, the word sharp and clipped.