The cell is maybe eight feet by ten feet, carved from rough stone that looks like it belonged to a mine shaft. Which, I realize with growing dread, it probably had been. The walls are crude, chisel marks still visible in the rock face. No windows, just a single heavy door with a slot at eye level. A rusted bucket sits in one corner—my toilet, apparently. The floor is uneven stone, worn smooth in places by countless feet.
The silver cuffs around my wrists, ankles, and throat have no visible hinges or clasps. They were welded on while I was unconscious—a permanent fixture until someone decides to cut them off. A chain runs from my left ankle to a heavy ring bolted into the stone floor, giving me maybe six feet of movement in any direction. Enough to pace, to reach the bucket, to sit against any wall I choose. But not enough to reach the door.
The only light in the cell comes from under the door, slipping from the hallway outside in a thin, sickly yellow linethat barely illuminates more than a few inches of floor. The rest is shadow and darkness.
The air is stale and damp, carrying the metallic tang of silver and something else—fear. How many prisoners have been held in this exact spot? The walls seem to whisper with their desperation.
This seems to be an abandoned mining operation repurposed for darker activities. If I’m where I think I am, I’m hundreds of miles from Shadowmist territory.
Hundreds of miles from any hope of rescue.
A metal door clangs somewhere in the distance, followed by the sharp echo of boot heels on stone. There are three sets of footsteps, plus the dragging scrape of someone being hauled between them. One of them is the unmistakable footsteps of the guard they send to torture me.
I force myself into a seat, determined to show no weakness even though every muscle in my body screams in protest. The silver cuffing my wrists, neck and ankles is not the only silver they’ve used to restrain me. During our interrogations they inject it directly into my bloodstream, waiting for me to break.
I’ll never give the bastards the pleasure.
The sounds grow louder until they stop outside the cell next to mine. “Back again so soon, wolf?” one guard taunts. “Miss your old accommodations?”
A dull thud and grunt of pain answer—they’ve struck whoever they’re dragging.
“Get him inside,” another orders. “And check the hinges on the door again. Last time he nearly got out.”
Keys jangle, a lock turns, and I hear the neighboring cell door swing open. There’s a moment of struggle—flesh hitting stone, chains rattling—followed by a heavy impact as they throw someone inside.
The door slams shut, locks again. The guards leave and silence follows. I begin to doze, focusing on conserving mystrength when a low, broken mutter pulls me back to consciousness.
The voice is male—rough and low, like gravel dragged over bone. “…told you I’d find her… you didn’t listen… should’ve called for backup…”
It’s not the kind of voice you easily forget. Despite being hoarse and frayed at the edges, it’s deep and richly pleasant.
“I’m sorry… so fucking sorry…” The words rasp through the stone—a sound half-snarl, half-plea. “I’m sorry.”
He repeats this six or more times before moving into a different repetition.
“Not real… can’t be real… they’re all dead because of me…”
Hours pass, his voice threading through them like a wire pulled tight. Sometimes his voice crackles with fury, sometimes it splinters into grief. Other times he sounds like he’s sinking into hollow, wordless sounds that scrape at the dark.
It’s a voice that fills the cell, the cracks, the empty air. It latches on, digs in.
I try to sleep, but his voice keeps pulling me back to wakefulness. There’s something haunting about the way he speaks.
“…tried to save you… wasn’t fast enough… never fast enough…”
By the time the guards next come for him, I’ve lost track of hours, days, time. I’m unsure how long I’ve been here between my fitful dozing and his conversations.
The man falls silent as the sounds of a brutal interrogation drift through the walls—questions are shouted, flesh hits flesh, his voice rises in defiance before falling into silence. When they leave him, the muttering has changed.
“Told you they’d be back.”
There’s a pause. Then another response, as if he’s having a conversation with someone.
“I’m not telling them shit. You can tell them if you’re so keen. Yeah, okay, bear. Sounds like you need to butt out and leave me be. Can’t a wolf get a little peace around here?”
It’s not long before I hear the scrape of a door and the even footsteps of guards returning.
This time, they don’t go to him.
