The Prison of Shadows

Rynn

The bars are cold beneath my fingertips.

Not cold like winter. Cold like iron that forgot the sun existed.

I lean against them anyway, pressing my forehead to the pitted metal as the chaos of the Prison of Shadows snarls and echoes beyond me. Everything smells of rust, damp stone, and something darker—like blood baked into the bones of the place. Every sound carries too far. Footsteps, grunts, a distant scream no one will answer. And laughter. Always laughter. The cracked, choking kind that crawls under your skin and stays there.

So this is it. The great, infamous prison they whisper about in the Federation courts, in brothels and backroom trades, in the crevices of dying cities like mine. The final destination for traitors, rebels, and anything that doesn’t fit in neat Federation boxes.

Hell in stone and silence.

And I walked right into it.

On purpose.

Brilliant, Rynn.

My jaw aches—I’ve been clenching it again. I try to ease the tension, but it’s no use. Every breath rattles in my chest like I inhaled wire. Across the corridor, a massive green-skinned male is being hauled down the tunnel by a dozen cloaked guards. His features are sharp, alien—scaled and sinewy, like something born between a lizard and a war god. Whatever species he is, it’s not uncommon on this planet. You learn to stop being surprised by skin color or bone shape when you grow up in a city built on trade, war, and forced genetic diversity.

What surprises me is the way they handle him.

They don’t touch him. Not directly. Not one gloved hand on his skin.

They guide him with chains, with rods and pulsing energy sticks. Like even the guards know what he is—what he could do if he decided to stop cooperating.

But he doesn’t. Not outwardly.

He walks in silence, fury trapped beneath his skin like a second skeleton. Every step is a war he’s holding back. His eyes burn brighter than the lamps overhead. They aren’t the vacant stares of the broken. They’re fire. Controlled. Dangerous. Malevolent.

He is rage made flesh.

And if they’ve got him locked in here, what else is buried in these walls?

Across the hall, another male—a brute with tusks protruding from his jaw—slams his face into the bars of his cell like he thinks he can intimidate iron. Blood spatters. He grunts, tries again. Doesn’t stop until he collapses with a final thud, unconscious.

Still, the noise doesn’t end.

The prison is a living thing, always moaning, always breathing, always on the verge of screaming.

I breathe through my nose and narrow my eyes.

This place doesn’t make sense.

The structure—its decay, its overpopulation, its cruelty—doesn’t align with what I’ve learned about the Federation’s prison systems. Too chaotic. Too… male.

Where are the women?

I’ve been here less than a day. I’ve heard dozens of voices. All male.

I strain again, ears tuned through the noise for something higher-pitched, something softer. Anything. But the soundscape offers nothing. Just roars and howls and the shuffling of boots.

Where the fuck are the women?

A sickness curls low in my stomach. Acid and ash. I’d accounted for so many things in this plan—guard rotations, riot schedules, smuggled codes etched into soap bars. But I hadn’t asked this question.

What happens to the females who get arrested?

Because if they’re not in here…

Where the hell are they?

I shudder, just once. Hard.

Because I know this regime. I know what they think of women. Of mixed-bloods like me. I know what becomes of girls who don’t serve a function deemed useful by Federation law. And the longer I listen to the silence where female voices should be, the more that unease turns to dread.

I’ve failed them already, haven’t I?

No. Not yet.

I shove off the bars and pace the tiny cell. Five steps to one side. Turn. Five steps to the other. Turn. The stone floor is smoother than I’d like—too many footsteps worn it down before mine. A bucket sits in the corner, its stench reminding me that dignity is optional here.

Fine. Let them think I’m broken. Let them think they’ve caught me.

They don’t know who they’ve caged.

Born illegal. Raised in a convent for undesirables. Thrown into the labor force by the age of seven for being too mouthy and too sharp. Every lesson I’ve learned came with blood under my fingernails.

I clawed my way out of the alleys and into the rebellion because no one else would take me, and then they realized they needed someone like me—someone ruthless enough to survive and smart enough to win.

And now I’m here.

I chose to come here.

Because the Federation made one fatal mistake.

They built their entire empire on prisons.

And forgot that cages don’t always hold animals.

Sometimes, they make them hungrier.

My pacing halts as the ground beneath my feet begins to tremble. Not softly—violently. A rolling, rhythmic quake that echoes down the hall like a stampede. I press to the bars and peer through.

The guards are coming again.

But this time, it isn’t the usual patrol.

It’s an entire phalanx.

Fifteen, maybe twenty cloaked figures dragging something between them. The chains gleam with wetness, thick as a woman’s waist. The noise they make is metallic thunder. And then I see him.

Him.

The Draco.

Oh, stars.

He’s enormous.

Tan skin stretched over muscle so thick it looks carved from war. Golden eyes flashing like molten ore. His shoulders are bare, ridged with dark scales that shimmer with every flex. His pants hang in tatters, stained and torn. His breath comes out in heavy plumes, carrying the distinct scent of sulfur and blood.

He doesn’t look up at first.

But then he does.

And everything slows.

His eyes meet mine—and widen.

His nostrils flare.

He steps forward, and the entire chain gang stumbles to hold him back.

“You brought a female in here?” he snarls, his voice gravel and thunder, layered with a rasp that prickles across my skin.

“She’s not a female,” one of the guards growls back. “She’s a problem.”

The Draco doesn’t laugh. He just looks at me again—longer, deeper. Like he’s scanning for cracks.

Then he takes a deliberate step closer.

The guards jerk against the chains. They don’t move him.

“You won’t last long in here,” he says finally, eyes flicking down to my boots, then up again. “They never do.”

I cross my arms. “Then I guess I’ll have to break tradition.”

His brow lifts. “You’ve got no idea what waits down here.”

“Neither do you.”

That gets something out of him. Not a laugh, but something close—a huff, maybe. Or a breath made of stone.

He turns.

Keeps walking.

The chains clatter again, dragging behind him like a dozen useless leashes.

I stay frozen until he’s gone from view.

Only then do I slide to the floor, my back against the wall, my thoughts gnawing on every word he said.

And then…

A whisper.

From the cell beside mine. Male, deep, worn thin by time and silence.

“You caught his eye, girl. Best learn to run in circles.”

I snort. “Why?”

“Because he’s like a beast with a scent. He won’t forget. Won’t stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Coming for you.”

The words fall like stones in a well.

“Why?” I ask again, quieter.

“Because in here, attention is a curse. Especially his. You stand out, you die faster.”

“Is that what this is? Some sort of sick zoo?”

“No,” the voice says. “It’s worse. It’s a coliseum.”

My stomach tightens. “The pits?”

“Aye.”

“They’re real?”

“As real as your next breath. They throw us in. Let us tear each other apart. Say it’s for discipline. Really, it’s for sport.”

“And the Draco?”

Silence. Then:

“He doesn’t fight. He ends things.”

I sit in silence after that, heart pounding, every thought spiraling into the next.

I came here with a plan.

I thought I’d seen the worst of the world.

I was wrong.

But if the Draco is the worst thing in this place?

Then I’m going to find out what makes him bleed.

And if he’s the key to breaking this place open…

He’ll either help me escape.

Or die trying.

Because I’m not just here to survive.

I’m here to burn the whole godsdamned cage to the ground.