Ingratitude

The stone walls dripped alone in the darkness. The rusty iron cages hung open. Whips and blades, along with more complicated instruments, sat unused on their pegs. Cruel-edged manacles dangled from the walls, chiming gently in the breeze as Daxon strode past.

"Where have they all gone?" he demanded, his voice rising to a plaintive note despite his efforts to the contrary. "There's no one left."

"Run off," the under-devil on duty responded morosely, trailing a talon in the wood surface of the rack.

Daxon paused to take in the enormity of this news. "After all we've done for them!?"