The corridor leading to the cell block was short, lined with more heavy stone and two additional guards stationed at the far end. Up until that point, the thick walls and solid doors had muffled everything to a dull hum, just a low, ever-present murmur in the background. But the moment the guards opened the next door, that quiet hum erupted into a full-blown roar.

  The sound hit me like a wave. I froze, momentarily stunned by the sheer volume, and probably would’ve stood there gaping like an idiot if Knapper hadn’t jabbed me sharply in the back. A few brisk prods were all it took to get me moving again. I was almost grateful he didn’t go straight to kicking. Almost.

  The white tunic and trousers they’d given me felt like they were designed to make life just that little bit worse. The fabric was coarse and stiff, scraping against my skin with every step. The seams dug in at all the wrong pces, and the fit was off. Tight where it should be loose, and loose where it should be snug. The shoes were the worst of it: paper-thin soles that already felt like they’d fold in half on a pebble. I dreaded finding out what they’d be like on gravel or cobbled stone.

  The air was thick with damp and stale moisture, the kind that clings to your skin and settles in your lungs. Most people would probably find it oppressive. Me? I’d lived in tunnels for years. This was familiar. Homely, in a miserable sort of way.

  Stretching out ahead of me was the prison proper. The tiered walkways and endless rows of metal doors. Each cell had a grated window set high in the door, and a small hatch near the bottom, probably for passing food or supplies. The stone walkways rose up as far as I could see, stacked floor upon floor into the gloom above. Guards moved along the upper levels with casual detachment, their footfalls almost lost in the chaos.

  And it was chaos. A cacophony of shouts, ughter, banging metal, howling threats, and things I couldn’t even begin to interpret. If not for the rexed posture of the patrolling guards, I might’ve assumed a riot had already broken out.

  Then a sharp and shrill whistle cut through the noise. A voice followed almost instantly.

  “Fresh meat!”

  The noise doubled. Tripled. Inmates on every level began shouting down at me. Some hurled insults, others made... offers. Promises of violence, whispered threats, lewd invitations, and crude jokes filled the air like smoke in a tavern. Hands reached through barred windows, spping metal or waving frantically. Some banged their cell doors with cups or fists, adding percussion to the orchestra of madness. Whistles echoed from above, bouncing around the stone like war horns.

  Knapper gave me a push to keep me moving, and I took the opportunity to look around, to really look. Faces peered at me through every slit and gap. Some were weathered, some twisted with scars, some expressionless and dead-eyed. A concerning number were missing the left eye. Ragged beards, broken teeth, burns, bruises. These were people who had seen violence and likely given it back in equal measure.

  I lingered too long on one of them. He spat at me. Missed, but the message nded all the same.

  Keep walking.

  Knapper guided me up a staircase to the next floor, and I gnced upward. There were at least eight more levels above us, the uppermost vanishing into shadow. Suspended between floors were long lines of nterns, softly glowing and swaying slightly with movement. I couldn’t make out the mechanism, but I’d bet anything they were mana-powered. Expensive stuff, casually hanging out in the open. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Magic-infused lighting dangling just out of reach of thieves and cutthroats who’d steal the boots off a corpse. If this pce weren’t so tightly locked down, someone would’ve already made off with the lot.

  “He’s a young one!” someone called from a cell as we passed. “What are you in for, d? Come on, you can tell me.”

  I turned my head to look, but Knapper shoved me forward before I could reply.

  “Aww, come on, Knapper! I’m just tryin’ to make a friend,” the prisoner whined, pulling the saddest face he could muster, all drooping lips and wide eyes.

  “Shut your face, or I’ll shut it for you, maggot,” Knapper snapped back, zily swinging his hand at the bars.

  It was somewhat comforting to learn I wasn’t the only one he called that. But what really lifted my spirits was the sudden, gleeful echo of voices repeating the insult.

  “Maggot!” “Maggot!” “MAGGOT!”

  It swept through the levels like a wildfire of mockery. Dozens of voices chanting the word like it was some sacred hymn. Knapper’s jaw tightened. He shoved me harder, trying to maintain control, but I could feel his growing frustration. The worst part for him? Every cell we passed fell instantly silent, denying him anyone to bme. But as soon as we moved on, the taunts started again, always further back, just out of reach. I could hear him growling under his breath.

  Then came the missiles.

  The first rag came tumbling down from high above, must have been the seventh or eighth floor judging by the angle. It fluttered zily, a grey blur in the central open shaft of the block. A second followed, then more. Bits of paper, twisted fabric, scraps of unknown origin. Then came the sharper sounds: metallic pings as small objects started striking the railings and doors.

  Knapper began swearing, urging me to move faster as projectiles continued to rain from above. Most weren’t aimed well, they were more symbolic than threatening, but still, I had to duck a few suspiciously stained rags and dodge a dented mug that cnged against the bars near us.

  The guards, who’d barely looked up until now, suddenly found their voices. They banged on cell doors, shouted warnings, barked threats at the inmates overhead. It made little difference. The storm had begun, and now it was in full swing.

  We got through the third floor without taking any real hits, but the effort it took was noticeable. And while I was dodging debris, I couldn’t help but notice the slight upward tick in my own mood. The more annoyed Knapper became, the better I felt. And judging by the enthusiasm with which the prisoners hurled their makeshift projectiles, I wasn’t alone in my opinion of him.

  At st, on the fourth floor, we came to a stop.

  Cell number seventeen. The number was freshly painted in bold white, standing out on the metal door like a warning. There were fifty cells per level. Twenty along each long wall, five on each short. Given the yout, I figured my cell faced outward. That might mean a window. Small consotion, but I’d take it.

  Knapper gave me a final shove into the cell and smmed the door behind me. I heard the rattle of keys, then the firm click of a lock sliding into pce.

  Strangely, I felt... relieved.

  For the first time since arriving, I wasn’t in immediate danger of being kicked, yelled at, or mocked. The cell was dark, but not oppressive. Cold, but not freezing. Small, but not coffin-small.

  To my right sat a simple wooden-framed bed, complete with grey sheets and a straw-stuffed pillow. It wasn’t much, but I’d definitely slept on worse. To the left was a single metal bucket.

  Didn’t take a genius to guess what that was for.

  “When the morning bell rings, we expect you to be up and ready. So don’t keep them waiting, maggot.”

  Knapper’s ugly mug filled the window in my cell door for a brief moment before he turned and clomped away, boots echoing into the distance. The noise of the prison remained, al of the shouts, the whistles, the occasional cng of metal but as his footsteps faded, it all started to feel distant, like background noise in a dream I didn’t belong to.

  I sat down on the edge of my bed. It didn’t sink at all beneath me. It just sat there, stiff and cold. Honestly, if I couldn’t feel the heat leeching out of my body into the stone floor, I might have preferred to sleep there instead. Lying down was borderline torture. The scratchy sheets worked in perfect tandem with the rough prison tunic to itch every inch of me, while the lumpy straw pillow rounded off the assault. I shifted and twisted, trying to find a position that didn’t feel like punishment, but it was hopeless.

  Everything about this pce was designed to break you down, piece by piece. Which, I supposed, was the point.

  I y there in that miserable excuse for a bed, stewing in silence, feeling sorry for myself. Could’ve been an hour, maybe two, before I heard something ping off my door.

  At first, I dismissed it as leftover debris, something tossed during the earlier chaos in the cell block. But then it happened again. And a third time. That one came with a whisper:

  “Oi! Freshy!”

  I blinked and sat up. Someone was definitely trying to get my attention. From the sound of the whisper-shout, they weren’t far. I got off the bed and made my way over to the little barred window in my cell door. I couldn’t get my whole head through, but I managed to tilt it enough to gnce to either side.

  To the right, I spotted something being swung on a string. A little scrap of wood bumping gently against my door.

  “Freshy! Come on, don’t be shy,” the voice called again.

  “Hello?” I answered, wary.

  “’Ow’s it goin’?” the voice replied, thick with rasp and accent.

  “Could be better,” I said, keeping my tone cautious. Anyone trying to get too friendly in a pce like this usually wanted something.

  “Maggot didn’t rough you up too bad, did ‘e? Right bastard, that one. Got a mean streak, ‘e does.”

  He rolled the words out slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world. His voice reminded me of those id-back tavern regurs, the kind that flicked you a copper and ruffled your hair before wandering off to their next drink.

  “He gave me a bit of a kicking,” I admitted, trying not to sound too wounded. “But I’m still here.”

  The stranger let out a gravelly ugh. “You’ll do all right in ‘ere if that’s true. ‘E’s cruel to the new blood, ‘e is. Ain’t right.”

  He paused for a moment before continuing, and I pictured him leaning back against his cell wall, arms crossed like a wise old storyteller.

  “Me mum named me William Horn, but everyone calls me Ol’ Billy these days. What do we call you, then?”

  “Brandon Horlock,” I said. “You can call me Brandon, if you want.”

  “Cheers, Brandon. I’ll do just that.” He seemed genuinely pleased, which was strange in itself. “Now, I don’t know if anyone gave you the full run-down, but I got some advice for ya. If you’re up for listenin’ that is.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, resting my hands on the bars. “Not like I’ve got a packed schedule.”

  Free advice was better than none, and something about Ol’ Billy felt solid. Like he was a man who wasn’t trying to sell me anything. Just passing on what he knew.

  He chuckled, deep and dry. “Right then. There’s things the Warden don’t tell ya. Things that matter. First off – don’t be a rat. Don’t matter what they say, what they promise, you never snitch. Ever.”

  I stayed quiet for a beat, but he must’ve thought I hadn’t heard.

  “You get me, d?”

  “Yeah,” I said quickly. “I heard you. No snitching. That won’t be a problem.”

  “Good. Second thing – don’t mess with another man’s food. Food is sacred in here. You touch someone’s tray, even look at it wrong, you’ll be sleepin’ with fewer teeth.”

  “Understood,” I said. That one made perfect sense. If someone touched my food, I’d be ready to throw hands too.

  “Third – and this one’s important – keep to yourself, unless you can handle what comes with bein’ noticed. This ain’t the outside, Brandon. There’s sharks in ‘ere. Real monsters. You step in their water, you best be ready to swim for your life.”

  “So… don’t pick fights with anyone stronger than me?” I asked.

  He chuckled again, like I’d just said something innocent.

  “Nah, d. Not just about fightin’. Don’t get tangled in no deals, no favours, no gangs, unless you’re ready to pay the price. Some of the bastards locked up in here? They’ve done worse than you can imagine. And they don’t forget. Or forgive.”

  That one hit home. This pce was crawling with people even Marky might think twice about. Hardened criminals. People who hadn’t just broken the w. People that had torn it to shreds and danced in the ashes.

  “Who you end up groupin’ with’s a big thing,” Ol’ Billy said, tone low and thoughtful. “You wanna be careful not to lock yourself in too quick. Some of you freshies? They get all wide-eyed and jump in with the first gang that throws 'em a smile. Foolish, that. Real foolish. That sort o’ thing can bite ya ter, you get me? You don’t just need friends in ‘ere, you need the right ones. Gotta know what you’re walkin’ into. Where’ve they put you for work? That usually tells ya who you’re gonna end up runnin’ with.”

  The mention of gangs set my thoughts spinning. I’d assumed things here were tightly controlled because it was guard-run and strictly managed. But if prisoners were organizing themselves enough for there to be “groups,” maybe that’s what he meant earlier about being established. Influence from the inside. It was hard to imagine inmates having sway in a pce like Achrane, but maybe that was just another lie the world told us on the outside.

  “Captain Kent said I was in the workshop,” I said cautiously.

  Ol’ Billy let out a scoff, a sharp breath through his nose, thick with something between amusement and disdain.

  “Figures,” he muttered. “Danny ain’t even cold yet and they’re already fillin’ his spot.”

  That name made my stomach twist. “Who’s Danny?” I asked. The way he’d said it... I got the sense I was stepping into more than just a job.

  “A good d,” Ol’ Billy said, quieter now. “Bit slow in the head but heart was in the right pce. He got himself caught up with someone he shouldn’t ‘ave. Didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.” He paused for a beat, like he was weighing whether to say more, then sighed. “He paid for it. Lotta folks do, eventually.”

  That didn’t fill me with confidence.

  “But,” he continued, “the workshop itself ain’t bad. Some decent blokes in there. Quiet ones. Ones who mind their own. You keep your nose down, focus on your work, you’ll be all right.” There was a rustling on his end that sounded like he was shifting around in his cell. “I’m on cookin’ duty meself, but I usually finish up round the end of chow. If you hang around after, I can give you some more info. Stuff I can’t say from this distance, you get me?”

  I nodded reflexively, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yeah,” I said instead. “I’d appreciate that. Really.”

  Ol’ Billy made a sort of huffing noise really, half amusement, half warning.

  “Less of the ‘thank you’, d. Manners’ll get you eaten in here. If you come off too polite, they’ll peg you for soft. You don’t wanna be the bloke everyone thinks they can lean on or shout at. Ain’t no one respectin’ a doormat.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I said quietly.

  “Smart d. Now, you know how Captain Kent gave you the big three rules? Well, them rules I gave ya, well, they’re ours. The prisoners’ code. You follow those, you got a shot at servin’ your time in one piece. That’s assumin’ the guards don’t get to ya first. Some of ‘em are right evil bastards, they are.”

  “I believe it,” I muttered. “Sergeant Knapper enjoyed kicking me way too much.”

  “Maggot!” Ol’ Billy ughed. “Call ‘im Maggot. That’s the one.”

  He sounded more animated now, like I’d passed some sort of test.

  “Names got meanin’, d. They’ve got power. What a man’s called, that shapes ‘im. You know what I mean?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Take Killer John, for example. You think he’s a friendly sort?”

  “Doesn’t sound it.”

  “Exactly! Name like that, you already know what you’re dealin’ with. You see ‘im comin’, and you don’t get cocky. You step careful. That name? That’s your warnin’. It changes how you act.”

  I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. He wasn’t wrong.

  “So by callin’ Knapper ‘Maggot’, you take the power back. You show ‘im you see what ‘e really is. A bug. A parasite. Not to be feared.”

  “Right,” I said. “And I guess it stings him more, since he’s the one who started it.”

  “Spot on,” Ol’ Billy said, snapping his fingers. “We throw it back, and it burns ‘im twice as bad. ‘Cause ‘e knows why we’re sayin’ it. Deep down, ‘e knows.”

  He paused again.

  “See, that’s why he only goes after freshies. You lot ain’t found your feet yet. He knows once you’re settled, once you got a name and a rep then he can’t push you around so easy.”

  Cssic bully tactic. Hit them while they’re still shaky, before they’ve figured out the rules. Establish fear before resistance. Same strategy kids used in back alleys and schoolyards across the realm. Except here, the stakes were higher. Here, getting it wrong could mean more than bruises.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

  “Good. You’ll be all right, Brandon. You keep your head down, follow the code, and don’t let Maggot get under your skin.”

  “Right,” I said. “Got it.”

  There was a pause, then a grunt of approval.

  “Good. Now, best you hit the hay. You’ll need your strength come mornin’. First day’s the worst, but they’ll all test ya one way or another. And trust me; if you go in tired, you won’t st the week.”

  That was advice I was more than willing to follow. The day had been long, brutal, and unrelenting. My ribs still ached from Maggot’s boot, but thankfully the pain had dulled. When it happened, I could’ve sworn something snapped but now, it just felt bruised. Sore, sure, but not broken. Probably just the shock of it all messing with my head.

  “Night, Ol’ Billy,” I said, already easing myself onto the stiff excuse for a mattress.

  “Night, Brandon,” he replied, voice softer than it had been all night. “Try not to dream of freedom. It only makes wakin’ worse.”

  He let the wood on the string tap gently against my door one st time before pulling it away.

  And with that, the hallway fell quiet again. No more talking, just the ambient noise of distant voices, the occasional cng of boots or bars, and the soft, constant hum of a pce that never truly slept.

  I y back, staring at the ceiling. It was too dark to see much, but I didn’t need to see. I could feel the weight of the stone above me, the weight of the pce itself. This wasn’t like the tunnels back home. There, I chose the walls that boxed me in. Here, they chose me.

  Still, there was something reassuring about Ol’ Billy’s words. Even in the worst pces, someone was willing to throw a rope out.

  I just had to make sure I didn’t end up hanging from it.