Dutch’s orders ring in your head the entire ride. “Wait until morning, we’ll have a plan.”

You ignore every word. Arthur is out there, so that’s all that matters now. By the time you find the hideout, night has taken over the forest. The place looks abandoned from the outside, but the horses tied nearby tell a different story.

Your stomach twists from running on desperation more than common sense. Deeper into the camp, you see everyone partying, and at some point, you heard about the prisoner in the cellar, which you hoped was Morgan. The cellar entrance is hidden behind an old shed. The lock gives way quietly beneath your knife, and you slip inside before anyone notices.

The air underground is muggy and cold, while every step seems just a little too loud. You move through narrow tunnels lit by weak lantern, carefully avoiding the voices drifting from somewhere above. Men laugh, while glass bottles clink together. They have no idea you’re here. Suddenly, a low groan reaches your ears. Your heart nearly stops, when you see blood seeping from under the wooden door. As you push the door open, Arthur is there, chained to a support beam. His head hangs forward, dark hair matted with blood. Bruises cover his face and neck. His lip was split open, and one of his sleeves is torn open, revealing cuts and dried blood running down his arm. He looked like absolute hell, and it frightened to see someone so strong, so… broken.

You rush forward, and your hands immediately find his face. “Arthur, c’mon Arthur. Wake up…” His skin is warm, another groan left his lips. He was still alive, and relief hits you so hard your knees nearly give out.

Arthur slowly lifts his head. His eyes struggle to focus. When he finally recognizes you, shock flashes across his battered face. Then it was frustration. “…Goddamn it.” His voice is hoarse. A fresh bruise darkens the side of his jaw. Looking at him makes your chest ache. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”