What a fool he had been to think that he could truly change.

With your fingers, trace every crack and crevice in the walls of your prison cell. A dampness may signify weakened mortar, a puff of air an opening beyond. Notice how insects and other vermin come and go. Their paths may lead you to freedom, my son.

He had thought it would be such an easy thing, like shedding an old cloak to don one of new cloth. After all, he didn't choose this course for his life. Since childhood, he had simply known nothing else. For a time it had seemed enough, though not because of the gold coins pilfered from velvet-lined purses, or the rings slipped from slender noble fingers, or the jewels spirited from guarded stone vaults. Money had always been the least of the rewards of his nightly work. Far more intoxicating had been the thrill. It flowed through his body Шее fine wine as he stole through darkened windows, crept down shadowed streets, or strode boldly across brilliant candlelit ballrooms toward his next unwitting quarry.

Dissatisfaction had come upon him so gradually that for a long time he had scarcely noticed it. Even after the thrill of the hunt had dulled into boredom, habit had propelled him onward. It wasn't until he was nearly captured that he understood how reckless he had become.

One moonlit night he had strolled along the silent avenues of Waterdeep's City of the Dead, wearing the expensive silken robes he had just lifted from a recently deceased nobleman. Only when the hue and cry sounded on the air did he realize that he had not even bothered to conceal himself as he walked. Struck by sudden terror, he had cowered in the embrace of a decomposing corpse in a half-filled grave as the City Watch ran past. He had escaped them, for the moment. Yet he knew it was only a matter of time before he grew so careless that even he could not elude the Watch when the alarm sounded.

The truth was, part of him wanted to get caught. He was weary-weary of scheming, of running, of watching dread flare in the eyes of others when they recognized who it was that stood before them. That night, in the bottom of the muddy grave, wrapped in the rain-soaked garb of a dead man, he finally made a choice. From that moment on, he was a thief no longer.

Now to the floor. Press your ear right against the stones. Then rap sharply with some hard object-a spoon, a pebble, even your bare knuckles if you have nothing left. Move a half-pace to one side, then rap again. Listen well as you do. A change in sound may indicate a space below. And a way out.

He had not considered that nobody would believe him. But it made perfect sense, naturally. He had robbed the citizens of Waterdeep for years. What cause did they have to trust him? When the rumor spread across the city that he had given up his thieving ways, another rumor raced hot on its heels: it was all an elaborate ruse to lure the nobility into a false sense of security. They would leave their wealth unguarded, and Artek could thereby relieve them of it all the easier. Finally, he had realized there was only one way to make the people of Waterdeep understand that he had truly changed. He had to show them.

His chance arrived unexpectedly. He was gloomily pacing the night-darkened streets of the North Ward, pondering his dilemma, when he turned the corner of a narrow lane and saw a gilded carriage standing at a halt beneath a stone archway. Instinct pricked the back of his neck, and he melted soundlessly into a pool of shadow. Then he saw them: two masked figures in black. One gripped the harness of the horses as the animals stamped nervous hooves against cobblestone. The other reached through the open window of the carriage, roughly jerking glittering rings from the hands of a middle-aged countess, while her heavily painted face cracked in terror.

Artek knew this was his chance. Surely saving a countess would win him a pardon for his past crimes, and prove himself reformed. He moved swiftly through the shadows, drawing a. dagger from each of his hoots. The man who held the horses was dead before he even felt the knife slip between his ribs, piercing his heart. The second looked up and managed to let out a cry of surprise before he was silenced by a knife in his throat.

Kneeling, Artek retrieved the jewels from the dead thief s grip, then stood to hand them back to the countess. Then matters took en unexpected turn. The countess screamed. Artek tried to explain that he was returning her jewels, but she just continued to cry for help. Growing angry, he thrust the rings toward her, but she beat them away with wildly flapping hands, her shrieks rising shrilly on the night air. Too late, he realized his own peril.

Whirling around, he saw torchlight approaching rapidly from either direction, and heard the sound of booted feet. Before he could act, a patrol of the City Watch appeared in the archway, while another rounded the corner. In seconds a dozen watchmen surrounded him, swords drawn. A cold knot of fear tied itself in his stomach as he became aware of the jewels he still gripped hi his sweating hands.

"It wasn't me," he said hoarsely.

The watchmen only grinned fiercely as they closed in.

Remember that every prison is merely a puzzle, and each has its own solution. To escape, all you must do is discover the answer that is already there. And while your face may be that of a man, never forget that the blood of the Garug-Mal runs in your veins. Ever have the orc-kindred of the Graypeak Mountains dwelled deep in lightless places. You have nothing to fear from the dark, Artek. For the dark is in you, my son…

With a clinking of heavy chains, Artek Ar'talen shifted his body on the cold stone floor, trying to ease the chafing of the iron shackles where they dug painfully into his ankles and wrists. As always, the effort was futile. He stared into the impenetrable dark that filled the tiny cell. Once a thief, always a thief. That was what the Magisters had said just before they sentenced him to spend the rest of his life in prison. On that day, Artek had finally realized that it was impossible to change. He would be whatever others thought him to be.

Artek was not certain how long he had been in this place. Clay cups of foul water and bowls of maggoty gruel came rarely and at uneven intervale through a slit in the opposite wall, and could not be used to mark time reliably. Certainly it had been months, perhaps as many as six. In that time, he had explored the cell as far as his chains allowed, recalling everything about prisons his father had taught him as a child, but he found no hope. The walls and floors were made of flawless stone without crack or crevice, as if forged by sorcery rather than hewn by hand. Nor had his father's tricks worked upon the shackles, or the bolts that bound the chains to the wall.

"I remember your words, Father," he whispered through cracked lips. "And damn your wretched half-ore soul to the Abyss, for they have failed me now."

With a groan, he slumped back against the wall. His father had been right about one thing-the dark was in him. And in the dark he would die.

It might have been minutes later-or perhaps hours, or even days-when a metallic noise ground on the dank air of the cell. Artek cracked his eyes. Chains jingling, he stiffly sat up. Had the guards finally brought him some water? He ran a parched tongue across his blistered lips. It had been a long time. He eyed the place in the dark where the slit of faint light always appeared, and through which food and drink were pushed with a stick. Puzzled, he saw only unblemished darkness. Then the grinding sound ended with a sharp clang!

All at once the perfect blackness of the cell was torn asunder. A tall rectangle of blazing fire appeared before Artek. With a low cry of pain, he shrank against the wall, shielding his face with his hands.