Chapter 5: The Prison Below

  The air here smells different. Stale, thick with the dust of long-forgotten things. It’s the kind of smell that clings to your skin and your thoughts, a constant reminder that this place is not meant for life, but for existence—a hollow, sterile state where survival is nothing more than a slow march toward eventual decay. The cells are cold, barren, each one a tomb for the broken bodies of humans who were foolish enough to think they could fight back.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Days? Weeks? Time has no meaning in this place. The walls are the same shade of grey, the floor the same cracked concrete. The only thing that changes is the faces of the guards as they pass by, their cruel, indifferent gazes making it clear that I am nothing to them. Not even a speck of dust in their grand design.

  The prison is underground, beneath the Heathen’s Market—so deep that the sun never reaches it. It was once a place for human offenders, but now, it's a holding ground for those like me. Those who are considered... valuable. Special. But not in any way that grants us freedom. No. We are valuable in the sense that we are to be broken and reshaped, made to serve the whims of those who deem us worthy of their attention.

  This section of the prison—the one I’ve been placed in—is a place where the Alki keep humans they deem interesting, useful, or perhaps just entertaining. We’re not here to be executed. Not yet. But we are here to be remade, stripped of everything that once made us human. Some of us are experiments. Some are trophies. And some, like me, are simply caught in the gears of a machine too large to escape.

  I can hear footsteps echoing down the corridor. The guards are speaking in low voices, as usual, too indifferent to notice when one of us listens in.

  “…new ones down the hall,” one of them says, his voice muffled but still clear enough to hear. “They’ve been quiet for days. Another group for the auction floor, I hear. Shouldn’t take too long before the Alkis start picking them apart.”

  I hate the auction floor. The very thought of it twists my stomach. That’s where the highest-ranking Alki come to select their playthings. Their possessions. Their tools. I’ve seen it happen once, back when I was still human enough to feel something other than hate and fear. The way they choose, how they parade us around like animals, poking and prodding until they find the one that pleases them. It makes me sick.

  Another voice chimes in, this one softer, almost compassionate in a way that makes my skin crawl. “They’ve got that new girl coming back today. You know, the one that kept fighting. She’s been in isolation again. Her master’s punishing her, but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

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  I don’t know why, but something about that catches my attention. Isolation. I’ve heard the term before. It’s a punishment for those who show too much resistance—those who refuse to submit completely to the Alki. I can’t imagine what it must be like, cut off from the world, trapped in a dark room with nothing but your own thoughts.

  “Ah, the woman who keeps trying to defy her master,” the first guard chuckles. “She’ll break eventually. All of them do. You can’t fight the inevitable. He’s already had her for weeks, and she’s still not learning. He put her in isolation to teach her a lesson, but she doesn’t seem to get it.”

  A woman. A defiant one, it seems. I can feel a spark of curiosity flicker inside me. What kind of person would fight back against them like that? What kind of person would continue to resist, even knowing what awaits?

  The footsteps grow louder as the guards approach, and I quickly press myself back into the shadows of my cell. They pass by, unaware of my presence. But their words linger in the air like a foul taste, stuck in my throat.

  A few hours later, she’s brought back.

  I hear her before I see her—her sharp breaths, the faint sound of metal clinking against chains, and the soft scrape of boots against the floor. A moment later, the door at the end of the hallway creaks open, and she steps inside, flanked by two guards.

  She’s taller than I expected. Her posture is straight, almost defiant, despite the exhaustion that seems to cling to her every movement. She’s dressed in the same ragged clothes we all wear, though her outfit is dirtier, more worn, as if she’s been through hell and back. Her hair is dark, falling in waves down her back, and her face, though pale, has an edge to it. A fire that refuses to die.

  The guards shove her into the nearest cell. She stumbles but doesn’t fall, catching herself at the last moment. One of the guards mutters something about keeping her under control, but she doesn’t acknowledge him. She simply looks around the cell with a practiced indifference, as if it’s just another stop on the long road of her torment.

  I watch from the shadows, unsure of what to make of her. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t beg. But I can see it in her eyes—this quiet fury, this unspoken challenge. She has been here longer than I have. Maybe longer than anyone else. The marks of isolation are still visible in her eyes—there’s something hollow in them now, a weariness that wasn’t there before.

  But there’s something else too. Something dangerous. And it makes me wonder if she might be more than just another victim of the Alki’s cruelty.

  The guards leave her alone in the cell, but she doesn’t sit or rest. Instead, she presses her back against the wall, eyes narrowing as if she’s already planning her next move. Her lips twitch, and I wonder if she’s smiling—or if it’s just a grimace born of the constant weight of this place.

  The air between us feels charged. She knows I’m watching. I can feel her gaze, even from this distance. And I know, somehow, that this will be the first of many encounters. That, like me, she is not going to break. She might be a little further gone than I am, but the fire is still there.

  Perhaps it is the fire that keeps us alive here. Even if it only burns in small, fleeting sparks.