One more week passed in the darkness of the cell.

Nero sat against the cold stone wall, his remaining hand resting on his knee, his eyes staring at nothing. At this point, the hunger had become something he couldn't ignore anymore, a constant gnawing presence in his gut that wore at the extremes of his mind.

The Templars had not come. Not even once during the entire week.

That means there were no rations, no water, absolutely nothing. He was left to stew in the silence, the dripping moisture from the walls and the cold seeping into his bones.

He had eaten the last rat three days ago. Since then, nothing. The dungeon seemed empty of them now, as though they had sensed something and fled, or perhaps he had simply killed them all over the past weeks. Either way, the result was the same.

Now, Nero was starving.

He had not noticed how much energy his body actually required until now. Back in the wilderness, he had been constantly devouring Abomination flesh, tearing into the dank, corrupted meat without much thought, perhaps, because he had believed he did it only for the Ein Sof in the flesh. He had assumed his appetite was normal, perhaps slightly elevated from the constant fighting and travel, but nothing excessive.

He had been wrong.

Abomination flesh was incredibly rich in nutrients and Ein Sof. A single corrupted rat provided more sustenance than an entire loaf of bread. The flesh of higher-grade Abominations had been even more potent, dense with energy that fueled his body's unnatural demands.

Now, deprived of that constant intake, his body was beginning to fail.

Nero looked down at his arm, what remained of it. The skin was paler than before, stretched tight over bone. His ribs were visible through his chest, each one outlined beneath the skin like the bars of the cell that imprisoned him. His legs had thinned as well, the muscle wasting away from unuse.

'Crap. This is bad, isn't it?' he thought weakly to himself.

He was dying. Slowly, but dying nonetheless.

The Mark of Mephistopheles pulsed on the back of his hand, faint crimson light barely visible in the darkness. Nero stared at it for a long moment, then closed his eyes and reached inward, into the void-space where the Oracle waited.

The cold cell vanished, replaced by endless black expanse and the presence of the Divine Oracle above him, its concentric circles glowing faintly like some terrible eye staring down from an infinite distance.

"I need food," Nero said. His voice was hoarse, weak. "I'm starving."

{The Heretic may exchange his daily requests for sustenance}.

Nero grimaced.

The Ashbread. His worst nightmare.

He had sworn never to eat that vile stuff again after tasting it once during his early days in the Purple Evergrowth.

It was dense, grey, and tasted like ash mixed with sand and sawdust. It sat in the stomach like a rock and provided just enough nutrition to keep someone alive, nothing more. Even the rancid flesh of Abominations felt much more appetizing.

But it was better than nothing.

"Fine," Nero muttered. "Give me the bread."

The void-space dissolved and Nero opened his eyes back in the cell. In his hand was a loaf of Ashbread, grey and hard as stone. He bit into it immediately, his teeth grinding against the dense material. It tasted exactly as bad as he remembered, dry and acrid, coating his mouth with a film of dust that made him want to gag.

He forced himself to swallow, then took another bite. Then another...

The bread filled his stomach but did nothing to satisfy the hunger. His body needed more, far more than this meager loaf could provide.

Over the next few days, Nero repeated the process. With one loaf not enough to sustain him, he had to acquire three of them each time.

The bread kept him from dying, but it did not stop the deterioration. His body continued to weaken, his strength fading day by day.

By the end of the week, Nero could barely stand. His legs trembled when he tried to stand and his vision swam when he moved too quickly. The stump of his left arm throbbed with phantom pain too, which was not a great experience.

He lay on the straw, staring up at the invisible ceiling, and wondered if this was how it would end.

Could it be that he Oracle had lied to him?

Was he destined to go out, starving in a dirty cell, slowly wasting away until there was nothing left?

He curled up into a ball and closed his eyes...

Then, on the second day of the new week, the Templars came.

The metal gate creaked open and two figures in crimson armor stepped inside. Nero didn't move ir even turn his head. He had no strength left to resist.

There was no will left to fight. Even if there was, he probably wouldn't.

The Templars grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. His legs buckled immediately, unable to support his weight, and they had to drag him out of the cell again. Iron chains were wrapped around his wrist, waist and ankles, the metal biting into his skin, binding him tightly and completely.

They dragged him through the corridors, past the other cells, past the torture chamber too, all the way to a different place entirely, with a door made of heavy iron with no markings or symbols, just dark metal that seemed to eat the light.

One of the Templars opened it and they dragged Nero inside.

The room beyond was pitch black.

Absolute, suffocating blackness that pressed into him from all sides like the edges of a box, entrapping him physically and mentally. The Templars shoved him forward and he stumbled, his chains rattling, before collapsing onto cold stone.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Nero lay there for a moment, gasping as his chest heaved. He tried to push himself up but his arm gave out and he fell back down, his cheek pressing against the freezing floor.

Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes. Time had no meaning in the darkness. Nero's mind began to drift, his thoughts fragmenting, all coherence slipping away like water and hope through his fingers. He thought he heard voices, whispers in the blackness, but when he tried to focus on them they vanished.

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