Chapter 18Cold Iron and Hollow Chains
Cold Iron and Hollow Chains
Aslanov
The first thing I wake to is the cold. A raw, gnawing kind of cold that seeps deep into my muscles, wrapping around my bones like iron chains.
It’s not just the damp chill of the underground, it’s the kind that’s been beaten into my skin, settled into the bruises and cuts that haven’t been given the chance to heal.
I shift, my body stiff and aching. My wrists are raw beneath the heavy metal shackles, the rusted cuffs digging into the skin, biting deep enough to leave permanent marks.
The air is thick with the scent of mold and damp stone, mixed with the faint metallic tang of rust and old blood.
This place, wherever the hell it is, feels ancient, a relic from some forgotten war.
The walls are thick, roughly hewn stone, slick with moisture in places, as if the earth itself is trying to reclaim them.
The ceiling is low, giving the whole space a claustrophobic weight, pressing down on me like a living thing.
In the distance, water drips, a slow, steady rhythm echoing through the empty corridors beyond my cell. I hear the occasional shuffle of boots; guards patrolling, their movements lazy, unhurried. They aren’t worried about me escaping. They don’t need to be. Not when I’m kept like this.
I glance down at myself. My body is a mess of bruises, some old, some fresh, blooming in ugly shades of purple and sickly yellow.
A cut along my ribs has stopped bleeding but still aches, the skin around it swollen.
I’m shirtless, my torso bare to the cold, covered only in dirt, sweat, and blood.
My pants are the same ones I was taken in; black, but now stiff with dried sweat and grime.
My feet are bare. They took my shoes, probably worried I’d use them to fight back.
My body is leaner now, stripped down to sinew and bone from the lack of food.
Every ridge of muscle stands out in sharp relief, my abs more defined than they ever were, though not from strength, just starvation.
My ribs press against my skin, a painful reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve eaten enough to feel full.
They feed me slop, but that’s only the beginning of the Hell I’m forced to endure.
What they give me isn’t food, it’s a cruel mockery of sustenance.
Thin, gray mush that smells rancid, floating in a soupy liquid that sloshes around like something that’s barely even alive.
It’s the same every day. A disgusting slurry that sticks to my mouth, my teeth, the back of my throat, tasting like dirt, rot, and a faint metallic bitterness that lingers long after I’ve swallowed.
It’s enough to keep me from starving outright, but only just. It’s a deliberate kind of torment, calculated to strip away everything, except the hunger. The gnawing, endless hunger.
Sometimes, they throw me a stale chunk of bread.
Hard, dry, and sharp at the edges like it’s been sitting in the dark for weeks, maybe months.
I break it into pieces, trying to make it soft enough to swallow.
But it only crumbles and turns to dust in my mouth.
There’s no substance to it. Nothing real.
The water is worse. A brownish, tainted liquid that reeks of rust, like it’s been drawn from a drain. I take it in small sips, but it never seems to be enough. I swallow it, and still, I feel parched, dry as if the very act of drinking is just another mockery of relief.
Prison? That was a luxury compared to here.
Sure, there were bars, walls, guards—but there was some sense of time, some small comfort, even if it was just the presence of other people, hers.
Food, even if it was barely edible, came regularly.
Showers, albeit cold, still existed. You could dream of escaping, you could have moments of camaraderie with other prisoners.
There was at least the illusion of life, a chance at survival.
This place? There’s no illusion. Just torment. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. Weeks? Time is irrelevant. There are no clocks, no sense of day or night. Just the cold, the darkness, and the hunger that grows with every passing hour.
And the man who runs this place, Nick, he makes sure I know that every second I spend here is a second closer to my breaking point.
He torments me, not just with hunger, but with silence, with isolation, with the weight of his eyes on me as I’m forced to endure whatever horrors he thinks will break me.
But even like this, even bruised and battered, my body still holds the marks of who I am.
Ink stretches across my skin, half-hidden beneath dirt and dried blood. On my left side, black thorns coil up my ribs, twisting toward my chest, the lines faded in places but still dark, still there.
My right shoulder bears a larger piece; a raven, wings spread wide, inked in deep, bold strokes.
The details used to be sharp, each feather carefully etched, but bruises bloom beneath it, distorting the edges.
Scars cut through parts of the design, old wounds that healed over but never quite disappeared.
On my chest a cross, my mark of power. Yet I hold none of it in here.
The viper that runs down my forearms with its fangs bare is now covered in blue and yellow bruises.
Even here, in this cage of damp stone and cold iron, my tattoos remain. They haven’t taken those from me. They haven’t stripped away the marks of the life I lived before this. And as long as I still breathe, they never will.
The metal door to my cell groans open, rust grinding against rust. I don’t react. There’s no point. I already know what’s coming.
Two men step inside. Always the same ones.
The first is built like a wall—thick neck, broad shoulders, arms heavy with muscle.
From what I can see his face is coarse, unshaven, his dark eyes empty.
A soldier. A man who follows orders without question.
The second is leaner, his features sharper, almost foxlike.
He’s quieter, more calculating, his movements careful, precise.
He watches me with amusement, like a predator waiting for its prey to tire itself out before the kill.
‘‘Time for your bath, princess,’’ the first one sneers, his voice rough.
They don’t wait for me to move. They grab me, one gripping my arm, the other unlocking the chain at my ankle. My legs protest as they drag me up, muscles stiff, aching from being kept in the same position for too long. I don’t stumble. I refuse to.
They haul me into the corridor. The hallway stretches in both directions, lined with cell doors identical to mine.
Most of them are empty. The ones that aren’t hold only ghosts, faint remnants of past prisoners, their presence lingering in the scratches on the walls, the stains on the floors.
The dim overhead lights flicker erratically, casting long shadows that dance across the damp stone.
The bunker, if that’s what this place is, feels old. Older than the men who run it. The walls are thick, the doors heavy, the architecture crude and functional. This wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for containment. For suffering.
I have no idea how Nick got to this place.
We pass an open cell where rusted chains still dangle from the walls, the remains of some medieval restraint system. A reminder that this place has seen its share of pain long before I ever set foot in it.
The air gets colder as they lead me deeper into the bunker. The floor is uneven in places, cracks running through the stone, as if time itself has been trying to break this place apart. But it still stands. Just like I do.
The shower room is just as I remember it—bare, unwelcoming. A large, rusted drain sits in the center of the floor, meant to wash away filth, sweat, blood. The walls are lined with exposed pipes, most of them corroded, leaking water that leaves streaks of rust down the stone.
They push me toward one of the stalls, no doors, no privacy. Just a single rusted showerhead jutting from the ceiling, like something ripped from a prison camp. The air here is thick with humidity, but there’s no warmth to it. Only the stale, wet stench of old water and mildew.
One of them turns the knob. The pipes groan, protesting as they force out a blast of water so cold it shocks my system instantly. It’s not just cold; it’s brutal. A rush of icy needles stabbing into my skin, stealing my breath, locking up my muscles.
I clench my jaw, forcing my body to endure it.
They watch. They always watch.
They want to see me break. They want to see me flinch, to shiver, to beg for it to stop.
But I don’t.
Instead, I stand beneath the freezing torrent, my body rigid, my breathing controlled. My skin tightens, goosebumps rising along my arms and chest, but I keep my expression blank. Cold is nothing. Pain is nothing.
One of them tosses a small bar of soap onto the wet floor. It lands with a dull slap, sliding across the slick tiles.
‘‘Clean yourself up,’’ the lean one says, voice dripping with mockery.
I don’t move right away. I stand there, letting the water pummel me, washing away the sweat, the blood, the filth of captivity.
Then, slowly, I reach down and pick up the soap. My fingers are stiff, the cold making every movement sluggish. I move methodically, scrubbing away the dirt, ignoring the bruises, the sore spots.
Minutes pass. Maybe longer.
The water stops without warning. My body screams from the sudden absence of the icy torment, my skin raw and burning from the extreme temperature shift. A towel, thin, rough, is thrown at my chest.
‘‘Dry off.’’
I do. My hands shake slightly as I drag the fabric over my skin, but I make sure they don’t see it.
They cuff me up again.
Then they’re dragging me back down the hallway, back through the damp corridors, past the empty cells and rusted chains.
Back to my cage.
The door slams shut behind me, the locks clicking into place, sealing me in.
And then, silence.
The darkness stretches around me, thick and unyielding. My skin is still ice-cold, my muscles aching from exhaustion, but I don’t let myself dwell on it.
I sit. I breathe. I wait.
They think they are breaking me.
They think they are winning.
They don’t understand.
I have lived through worse.
And I will get out.