I was the last to leave the mess hall. A soldier barked a sudden order, ushering me toward my "room." That's what they called our cells—no doubt a hypocritical tactic to keep us compliant. Against all odds, the place was relatively clean, in much better shape than my former home. But as I crossed the threshold, the room's apparent comfort vanished instantly: the first thing that struck me was the presence of someone else inside.
A figure was perched on the bunk bed, clad in a large, cream-colored robe that seemed almost too pristine for such a place. With a hint of hesitation, I gave a vague wave of my hand. At that moment, the guard who had escorted me broke the silence with a gruff voice:
New roommate for you. Don't go causing trouble. You'll explain how things work around here yourself.
The heavy armored door slammed shut with an ominous thud, leaving us alone in the oppressive silence of the cell. The individual on the bed didn't move right away. Beneath the robe, I could make out a slender silhouette; she radiated an aura of unsettling calm.
Finally, the stranger moved. She slid her legs off the bed with a grace that felt nothing like that of a broken prisoner. Pulling back her hood, she revealed a face with delicate features: she was human. Her hair was a pure, snowy white that owed nothing to age, forming a dense, immaculate afro. This hair contrasted sharply with her deep ebony skin, but it was the scar running across her face that caught my eye. A clean gash ran from one cheek to the other, marking her nose with an indelible line.
She fixed me with bright orange eyes, in which I could detect a certain weariness. She studied me for a long moment, her gaze drifting from my horns to the fresh wounds I'd sustained in the mess hall.
Those damn guards don't do a lick of work, and now I have to play teacher too! she snapped with undisguised irritation.
She hopped to the floor, her robe fluttering slightly around her ankles, and pointed an authoritative finger at the various corners of the small room.
Alright, listen up: top bunk is mine. The toilet, as you can see, is in the corner over there, so you get out when I'm using it. As for the rest, we'll figure it out as we go. And there's one shower a day in the common room, she added, settling back onto the edge of her bed. Except when you're going on a mission. Then, you get one before and one after. It's their way of making sure we don't bring back any filth from the outside… or that our mutations don't muck up the hallways too much.
She paused, gauging my reaction.
Make the most of it. It's the only time you won't feel like you reek of death and rancid broth.
I nodded, absorbing these new rules. There it was again: "missions." The word kept coming up, like a threat or a promise of escape. What were they, exactly? Forced labor? Exploration? Or worse, field tests for our mutations? I was dying to ask, but I thought better of it. For now, I had to keep a low profile. I knew enough to realize that asking too many questions could be seen as a sign of weakness.
I settled for sitting on the bottom bunk. The mattress was thin, but compared to the mess hall floor, it felt like a cloud. I could feel the human's gaze weighing on me, studying me in silence. She seemed to be waiting for a spark of rebellion or a complaint, but I remained stoic.
Wise choice, she whispered, as if reading my mind.
She lay back down on her bed, turning her back to me.
Can I ask your name? Mine is Ghast.
A heavy silence followed. I felt like I'd made a mistake, like I'd been too familiar. Then, I heard the rustle of her robe as she tucked herself more comfortably against her pillow.
Call me Sora. Now, sleep.
The next morning, the crash of a baton against the bars jolted me from a dreamless sleep. The electric hum of the prison seemed more intense, as if the air itself were under tension. A guard appeared behind the gate, his face hidden by a helmet.
Sora, get ready. You're heading out! he barked.
She asked no questions. She rose almost immediately, flipping her hood over her white afro in one fluid motion. She didn't spare me a glance. She picked up a small satchel and headed for the door.
And me? I ventured to ask the guard, my voice still raspy.
The soldier turned his head slowly toward me.
You're the new one, he spat. Someone else is coming for you. So stay put, they'll be here soon.
The door closed heavily behind them. Sora had disappeared, leaving me alone in the icy silence of the cell. The relative comfort of the previous night had evaporated. I sat on the edge of my bed, senses on high alert, wondering who—or what—was coming to fetch me.
The wait wasn't long. The lock clicked a second time, and the door slid open to reveal a silhouette that seemed far too vast for the narrow corridor. It was a female warrior of imposing stature. She exuded a striking confidence, emphasized by a broad smile that seemed to defy the prison's gloom. Her athletic, perfectly sculpted body spoke of rigorous training. Her tousled blonde hair framed a sharp face, while her dark skin was covered in intricate white tattoos that glowed faintly.
She wore combat gear that looked nothing like a prisoner's uniform: a black and gold crop top, a brilliant red sash, and baggy brown trousers. Golden guards on her wrists and legs completed her equipment, shining with an almost royal luster. She stopped in the center of the room, fists on her hips, and stared at me with undisguised curiosity.
So, you're the famous "two-horns," Ghast, that everyone's talking about? she asked in a loud, warm voice. I expected something a bit more... massive, but the look is there. That's a start. Come on, up you get! Time to get you up to speed. My name is Orohra, and I'm the one who's going to make sure you don't kick the bucket before you've been useful to the Empire.
Orohra turned on her heel and led me through the dark stone corridors of the penitentiary sector. We weren't going down; we were going up. The iron and chain elevator dropped us off on the first floor, an area I hadn't seen yet. Here, the walls were reinforced with metal plates, and the air was thick with the scent of sweat and cold steel. She stopped before a massive set of double wooden doors that opened with a low rumble. Behind them stretched a vast training hall, dotted with enchanted straw mannequins, magical targets, and dueling circles traced in blood-chalk on the floor.
Listen closely, Ghast, Orohra began, turning back to me, her smile replaced by a warrior's seriousness. For the foreseeable future, this is where you'll be spending your days. You're going to be trained for the missions. Once the basic training is done, we'll send you into the field. Depending on your success—how many and how well you do—you'll earn certain privileges. In time, you can even earn near-total freedom. I was in your shoes once, too.
She took a step toward me, closing the gap. Her presence was overwhelming.
You're going to learn to use your powers, to tame that strength burning beneath your horns. But make no mistake: you will be under my constant watch. I will be your shadow.
She pointed to the stone gargoyles perched on the ceiling, their eyes glowing a dull red, and the magical seals shimmering on every exit.
We are still in the heart of the prison, locked down by spells that even a demon couldn't break. So, a word of advice: don't even think about escaping. It would be a shame to waste your potential on a flight that would only end in your own blood.
She crossed her arms, her white tattoos glowing with a faint light.
Any questions, or should we start seeing what you're made of?