“Day eighteen,” he said to her, his voice empty and expressionless, like his grey eyes, which glittered teal in the torchlight. He said this everyday. Habitually, every morning, when he came to deliver her breakfast, he told her how many days she had been locked up in his dungeon. Everyday, he cut into her, further, the torture she’d had to endure, and how many days she’d had to endure it.