Chapter 8 - The Testing Ground

The cell was smaller than the boulder.

Sisyphus sat with his back against cold stone, hands resting on his knees.

Through the narrow window slit, he could hear the palace preparing for dawn. Footsteps in distant corridors. Voices giving orders. The scrape of benches being arranged in the courtyard; seating for the spectators.

Fair enough. Theater required an audience.

He examined the cell walls out of habit. Limestone blocks, decent craftsmanship, mortar joints showing minor settling cracks. The door was oak reinforced with iron bands. Standard construction. Nothing impossible about it.

Nothing like what waited below.

His hands moved without thinking, fingers tracing the wall beside him. Found a rough patch where the stone was softer. Started working at it with his thumbnail, carving shallow lines. Not words. Just marks.

Just keeping his hands busy.