Mokuba slowly opened one eye, and then the other. For some reason, he couldn't remember what had happened just a minute ago. How long had it been since he had passed out, from a chloroform cloth pressed to his face by someone who'd stalked him at the town square?
He was lying on some sort of lawn chair, only it wasn't the kind you'd see in the neighbor's backyard - it had the shape of a recliner, but it was entirely solid, and padded on the top to support his weight. But he wasn't disturbed by that part. What frightened him so badly was that his feet were bare, and that his shoes and socks were missing. His ankles were trapped in what looked like a pair of wooden stocks, and when he tried experimentally he found, to his dismay, he couldn't move his legs.
He was in the corner of a dark room, with stone walls lit only torchlight, like a dungeon of some sort. Instead of weapons though, it had implements more likely to be found in the average household's bathroom, e.g. ballpoint pens and m