“That was a warning,” the guard hisses, his features obscured behind his helmet. “The next takes your eye.”
I lower my gaze, but not before catching sight of the massive gates swinging open ahead—great slabs of metal worked into the likeness of a dragon's maw. Beyond them, shadows and firelight dance on stone walls. The air grows hotter, thicker with the acrid scent of smoke and something else... something musky and reptilian.
The wagon rolls forward into darkness. The gates grind shut behind us with the finality of a tomb being sealed.
As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I see figures moving in the shadows: trainers, handlers, other recruits. And beyond them, in fire-lit caverns carved into the mountainside, the looming shapes of chained beasts with scales that gleam like metal and eyes that burn like coals.
“Welcome to the Ironhold,” Tomas murmurs beside me. “Time to become a monster or die trying.”
Chapter 3
The processing chamber reeks of fear and cleansing tinctures. And even without power, I can’t help but feel it: a faint sting across my skin where the iron closes in, as if some part of me still remembers what it once could do.
They herd us like penned beasts through iron-barred corridors, our bare feet striking the worn stone with every step. Guards with lightning spears prod anyone who moves too slowly. No one speaks; the only sounds are breathing, footsteps, and the distant, reverberating roars that shake dust from the ceiling.
“Single file,” barks a guard as we enter a vast chamber cut directly into the mountain's heart. “Hands visible at all times.”
I take in my surroundings with quick, furtive glances. The chamber is circular, ringed with iron doors and suspended walkways where more guards patrol. The center holds a series of stations—each one more degrading than the last.
At the first station, they strip us completely. Our prison rags fall to the floor and are swept away by silent workers in gray uniforms. I cross my arms over my chest, fighting the urge to cover myself further. Dignity is a luxury I can't afford to cling to. Not if I want to survive.
Ellis, the scholar boy, trembles beside me, his thin frame racked with humiliation. I nudge him gently with my elbow.
“Eyes forward,” I whisper. “Pretend you're somewhere else.”
“Where would you suggest?” he asks bitterly.
“Anywhere but here.”
A guard approaches with a rod that hums with energy. “No talking in processing,” he says, raising the weapon.
I meet his gaze through his helmet slits and fall silent. Some fights aren't worth picking. Not now.
At the next station, freezing water blasts from pipes overhead, carrying away grime and dignity in equal measure. The shock of cold makes me gasp—a mistake, as the water rushes into my mouth, tasting of metal and chemicals. I spit and cough while guards laugh.
Lira comes through the drenching beside me, her tattoos stark against her pale skin. Her face remains impassive, but I notice how her hands tremble slightly at her sides.
“Been through worse,” she mutters, so quietly only I can hear. “Much worse.”
The next station is manned by bog fae in stark white robes, once our distant kin, now hollowed into imperial functionaries. The robes hang awkwardly on their stooped frames, ill-suited to beings more accustomed to loam and shadow than sterile light. They carry crystal lenses that scan our bodies, lingering over various points as readings are taken. I catch my reflection in one of the lenses—pale face, eyes a muted lilac, ash-brown hair plastered to chilled cheeks.
“Subject 437, unremarkable physiology,” croaks the female examining me. Her voice sounds almost bored. “No magical markers. Average muscle density. Previous injuries to ribs and left collarbone, healed improperly.”
In other words, painfully mortal.She might as well have said the words aloud.
She scrawls something in a ledger, then points brusquely to the next station. “Move along.”
At the next station, we're doused in a stinging powder that makes my skin burn, then hit with another blast of water to rinse it away. Delousing, I realize. Like we're animals.
Then comes the marking.
A rail-thin male bog fae steps forward, holding an unfamiliar metallic apparatus with a long barrel that whirs and hisses as he calibrates it. Without warning, he grabs my forearm in his clammy grip and presses the device against my skin.
Pain erupts—sharp, insistent—as needles puncture my flesh hundreds of times in rapid succession. I bite my lip until I taste blood, refusing to cry out. When he releases me, a black mark stains my inner wrist: a stylized dragon wrapped around the number 437.
“Your designation,” he says tonelessly. “Forget your name. You are Four-Three-Seven now.”
“My name is Veyra,” I say through gritted teeth.
