Alfred trudged along with his hands tied and a weighty iron cuff fixing his foot, escorted through the camp of the triumphant foe. Cheers filled the air as troops of King Theodore III strode in exaltation; however, the celebration was diminished by the sight of their ensnared ally. Alfred's eyes stayed glued to the dirt, his reflection a chaotic maelstrom of doubt.
The adversary troops who had apprehended him were morose and resentful, their previous haughtiness exchanged for the acrid flavor of defeat. They directed reproving glances at Alfred, as though he had been responsible for their monarch's downfall. The realization that he had inadvertently taken part in the enemy's failure weighed greatly on his conscience.
As they ventured deeper into the core of the enemy's stronghold, Alfred's environment became increasingly gloomy. The air became foul and moist, and the wavering torches created spooky silhouettes along the chill, rock walls. The dungeon, an environment of darkness and despondency, awaited him.
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