Kratoski, maximum security prison (Siberia, Russia)

I stood in the office of the prison Director, along with the man himself, a representative of the USA Embassy and the Duke's lawyer. We followed through the security feed the movement of two guards as they made their way to one of the prison's buildings, Pavilion 11, known as 'No Man's Land'. The worst criminals of the prison were kept there and only the strongest imposed the rules.

Through the speakers came the maddening yells of the inmates as the guards walked in perfect formation down the hallway, sweating nervously, their expressions stoic except for their eyes, which betrayed their fear. The dirty white color of the walls and the remote-controlled, armored steel doors set evenly along the long corridor reminded me of a psychiatric hospital.

The prison Director, Colonel Rosnivov, a man in his fifties dressed in a pristine Russian military uniform, lit a pipe while the young blonde lawyer waved a piece of paper on his face.

"Have you confirmed the legitimacy of this document with the highest authorities of this country?" he was saying in his crisp British accent, while the representative of the American Embassy was anxiously looking at the images of the corridor where the neurasthenic guards were.

"This transfer order is legitimate" said the lawyer. The Director ignored him. "Open cells 6 and 13," he barked.

One officer pressed a flashing red button on the dashboard in front of the monitors. The heavy door marked with the number 13 started to open.

"Duke of Von Wolves, follow me," one of the guards snapped while holding a pair of handcuffs.

The Duke's lawyer smiled maliciously, staring at the monitor. Out of the prison cell stepped a man in his sixties, lanky and athletic considering his age, ducking slightly to avoid hitting the rails that held the heavy door.

"Held your hands out, inmate," ordered the other guard with a trembling voice.

The Duke raised his head and fixed his sharp eyes on the man, glaring at him through his long gray hair and replied with a voice that seemed to come straight from a graveyard. "I don't think so."

The officer stepped aside and escorted the slim and hostile man with a face full of scars were created by enemies and time to cell 6, where they stopped to release a cowering, medium-height man around forty-five years old. When he saw the Duke, he went to his knees in a show of submission.

"His Majesty, finally we are going to go back to the castle. The time has come."

"Indeed, Smith. Now we must free our brothers." With an empty and insane look, he smiled at the two prison guards and patted the head of Smith.