By the time the three had reached the last stair, the sound they’d been trailing had turned into a murmur. They entered a room that sprawled with a full audience of the dead. If not for the revolting atmosphere and the fact that he was thoroughly lost and confused, Alfred thought there may have been a kind of beauty in it. It reminded him of the clay soldiers he’d once read about. They had been buried with their emperor, forever standing guard, forever locked in stillness. Despite their haggard appearance, one thing could be said about the dead: their display was orderly.
Chela stood beneath a man who was, however, quite out of order among the rest of the dead. For one, he was notably alive. Absent on his face were the slashes, bruises, and bashes that were so evident on the interred, although his clothing told a different story. The man wore a baby blue frock with long sleeves that did little to disguise the girth of his arms, separating the fine threads in places like splintered wood. It was decorated in lace and blood, a frill here, a smear there. His chair had been haphazardly jammed up into a corner of the room. He was attached to the ceiling, attached in the way you’d normally expect someone to be if that was a common occurrence. His arms and legs were lashed to the chair with brown leather belts, and the chair was itself bolted in place to keep him from falling, something he was indeed at risk of by the appearance of his shaggy black hair dangling beneath. But even he had a blood bag.
“You have to help me!” the man screamed, in Alfred’s direction, apparently unappeased by his audience with Chela. “Please!” He thrashed against his restraints.