A short summary on what's happened so far . . .
When Birchen and accomplices stock up on supplies, Darwith accidentally slips their identity, and him, Birchen and Lark get sent to jail! Are they doomed to fail, or will they somehow escape . . . ?

Surprisingly, I was never sent to jail in my whole life.

Back in Perfideth, there were tales of how grim and horrible it was, but this is just going over the line. Sir Castor twisted my wrists until I could hear my bone crack.

Without stopping there, he tied the rope around my hands so tightly, that not only was I completely unable to move my arms, but that it cut into my skin. A trail of blood stained my shirt. I grimaced in pain, which made him smile in pleasure. He did the same to Darwith and Lark.

So far, we were inside a dimly lit dungeon beneath the royal herb gardens.

Well, more like hovering above the dungeon cells.

We were walking on a wooden platform fixed firmly above the prison cells. Beneath our feet, black smog drifted about. I studied a prison cell as I shuffled on the platform. There seemed to be a . . . bubble. A barrier. Whatever it was, it blocked the smog from entering the prison cells.

Soon enough, we approached an empty cell, which stank of feces. I wanted to vomit in disgust. Judging by Lark's and Darwith's expressions, I think they wanted to as well. Sir Castor shoved us off the wooden platform, and grinned menacingly.

"This is your cell, you punks. Hope you like it."

Eyes wide, we fell off into the empty cell beneath us, our hands still tied. I landed face first into the dirt. Struggling to get up, I surveyed my surroundings.

The cell consisted with a couple of bunk beds, a dunny, and a small, muddy hole, which I suspected was the bath tub. Surrounding the cell wasn't bars, but a river of bubbling black liquid. Mysterious black fog danced deadly above the river. I could already tell it was poisonous, even though I had no knowledge of herbs. There was no exit as far as I could tell. In fact, the only entrance was probably by falling off that platform anyways.

Lark gave a small whimper. "Are we really going to have to stay here with with our hands tied?" She said softly. She seemed genuinely afraid. I was surprised. The Lark I knew was sarcastic, bold and determined - not this meek, little girl.

Sir Castor grinned. "Well, I suppose I can spare your hands."
With a flick of his hands, our ropes went loose. It was like as if my hands were sighing in relief.
"But mind you, don't try to escape! Whoops, I said that wrong - you can't escape." He laughed hysterically. "Very well, you three. I will be seeing you again in an hour for an interrogation."

Interrogation?