He's sore when he wakes up; from struggling against Krell and his brothers, from struggling against the monster he's been given too... and from giving in to it in the end. He doesn't let himself make a sound, though his jaw goes tight as he levers himself up to sit and examines both the room and the things that have been left for him in it. He pulls the cloak around his shoulders, teeth gritted against the ache and stretch as he steps down to the cold stone floor.

He feels... empty. Lost and soiled and broken beyond repair. And one hand drifts up to the scabbed and blistered mess where he'd worn his Lady's ashhawk with pride since he was two years old. His breath shuddered out in something that would be a sob if he let it and he slides down the side of the stone altar to sit curled in on himself on the floor at its base, the cloak falling off his shoulders as he ignores the coat and boots as well.