The van's doors screeched open, and a flood of light stabbed my eyes, sharp enough to make me wince. I sat slumped against the cold metal wall, my wrists screaming under cuffs that bit like teeth, blood crusting on my cheek from where my head had cracked against the plaza's platform. My chest heaved, every breath a knife, not from bruises but from her—Clara, gone, her silver hair pooling in blood, her green eyes empty. The image burned in my skull, looping like a broken holo-screen, and I couldn't shut it off. I didn't want to. It was all I had left of her, even if it tore me apart."Get up, scum!" An enforcer's gloved hand clamped my arm, yanking me to my feet. My boots scraped the van's floor, slipping in grime, and I stumbled, catching myself before I fell. I glared at him, my throat too raw to spit the venom I felt, but my eyes must've said enough because he shoved me harder, his visor glinting under the floodlights. "Move, or I'll drag you."I wanted to swing, to smash that blank visor and scream—about Clara, about the lance that stole her, about the crowd cheering like it was a show. But my hands were trapped, my body heavy, like the world had piled its weight on me. So I let him push me out, let the stink of Nova Rhea hit me full force—oil, ash, and something sour, like hope rotting.
The air clung to my skin, thick and wrong, and I coughed, tasting metal on my tongue.We were in a compound, not the neon heart of the city but its dark underbelly.
Walls rose high, topped with razor wire that caught the light like jagged teeth. Floodlights glared down, bleaching the ground bone-white, and drones buzzed above, their red lenses twitching like hungry bugs. Concrete buildings squatted around us, their windows black, no trace of the plaza's glow. This was where Nova Rhea hid its cruelty—vans idling, doors clanging, shadows moving in cuffs. A scream cut the air, sharp and human, then stopped, leaving my skin crawling. Prison. Not the kind you walked out of.My knees shook, threatening to buckle, but I locked them, standing taller.
Clara wouldn't want me breaking, not here, not now. I could still hear her—Live. For me—her voice soft as the wind in Thornwick, back when we had a home. It hurt, that memory, like a bruise I kept pressing, but it kept me moving as the enforcer shoved me toward a gate, his rifle prodding my back. I pictured her face—smiling by our cottage fire, brushing dirt off my cheek, teaching me to spark a flame even when it flickered out.
Sixteen years, and she'd been my everything. Now she was ash, and I was this—cuffed, bleeding, alone.The gate groaned open, and they pushed me into a hallway, long and gray, smelling of rust and sweat.
The walls were scratched, claw marks maybe, and lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they couldn't decide to live or die. My boots echoed, too loud in the quiet, and I caught my reflection in a cracked window—pale, scrawny, blood smeared across my face, dark hair tangled. I looked like a stray dog, not a kid with a fight left. But I felt it, deep in my gut, a fire Clara had lit, even if I didn't know how to use it yet.We passed cells—metal doors with slits like narrowed eyes. Some were silent, others weren't. A low moan slipped through one, a curse through another, and I wondered who they were. Witches, like Clara? Kids, like me, caught for caring? Or just folks who'd said no to the Coalition's chip, their NeuraTech leash? I didn't know, and my head was too full of her to care. My fight was for her, not them. At least, that's what I told myself.They stopped at a door, thicker than the rest, its lock glowing red like a warning. The enforcer scanned his wrist—blue light flashing from his implant—and the door slid open, slow and heavy, into a room that smelled like fear.
It was small, bare, just a table pitted with dents and a chair bolted to the floor, like it'd seen too many fights. No windows, just a vent humming faintly, pushing stale air. My heart kicked up, thudding loud, but I kept my face still, jaw tight. They wouldn't see me scared, not after what they'd done."Sit," the enforcer barked, slamming me into the chair.
My tailbone hit hard, pain shooting up my spine, and the cuffs clanked as they locked to the armrests, pinning me like a bug. I bit my lip, tasting blood, and stared at the table, tracing a scratch that looked like someone's name, half-gone. Another figure stepped in—black uniform, no exosuit, a silver pin shaped like the Coalition's gear-and-lightning sigil. His face was all edges, cheekbones sharp, gray eyes colder than the room. No implant scar, which threw me—most big shots were wired to the network, their brains half-machine. He held a tablet, its blue glow carving shadows on his skin, and watched me like I was a job he wanted done fast."Asher Wolfe," he said, not asking, just stating, like he'd peeled my life open.
"No chip, no record, found screaming for a witch in Central Plaza. Clara Moreau's shadow, aren't you?""Don't," I growled, my voice scraping out, rougher than I meant.
"Don't say her name." It was the first thing I'd said, and it felt like spitting fire, like I could burn him with it. Clara's name was mine, not his—mine to hold, to hurt with.He didn't flinch, just tilted his head, a smirk flickering.
"Sensitive. Let's make this quick. Where's the rest of them? Witches, hideouts, plans—she wasn't alone, and neither are you. Talk, or you're nothing here."Nothing. The word hit like a slap, but I didn't blink. Nothing was what I felt—without her laugh, her hands, her belief I could be more. But I wasn't giving him that, or anything else. Not Thornwick's streams, not her spells, not the whispers of a resistance she'd chased to Nova Rhea. I stared at the table, counting dents, letting his voice bounce off me like rain on stone.He stepped closer, boots clicking, and leaned in, his breath sour with coffee and lies. "You think you're tough, kid? You're a ghost—no family, no rights. We say you're gone, you're gone. Like her."I lunged, or tried, the cuffs yanking me back, chair screeching. "You killed her!" I shouted, my voice cracking, tearing open. "She was good—better than you, better than this city! You took everything!" Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't care, didn't stop. "You'll pay, all of you—I'll make you pay!"He straightened, unfazed, like I'd shouted at a wall. "Pay?" He laughed, short and dry. "You're a kid with a grudge. Iron Hollow'll fix that." He tapped his tablet, and a holo flickered—a prison, all spikes and shadows, crouched in Nova Rhea's wastelands. "Level S threat, witch sympathizer. You're not walking out."Iron Hollow. Clara's warnings echoed—a black hole, Asher, where they bury the ones who fight. My stomach sank, cold and heavy, but I didn't look away. Level S? I was just me, a kid who couldn't spark a flame right, who'd failed her. But they saw her in me, saw danger, and that was enough. Enough to bury me.He nodded at the enforcer, who grabbed my shoulder, bruising, and hauled me up. My legs wobbled, sore from the van, but I stood straight, staring him down. "Do it," I said, low, almost a whisper. "Lock me up. I'll still come for you."He smirked again, wider, like I'd told a joke. "We'll see." They dragged me out, down another hall, colder, where the air tasted like despair. A speaker crackled overhead, a woman's voice, mechanical: "Asher Wolfe, Level S, sentenced to Iron Hollow, indefinite term."
The words landed like stones, but I kept walking, kept breathing, because I had to.
For her.They shoved me into a smaller van, its walls scratched, smelling of rust and blood. I sat alone as it roared to life, pulling away from the compound, away from Nova Rhea's lights. My head rested against the wall, and I whispered, "Clara, I'm sorry."
Sorry I wasn't enough, sorry I lived when you didn't. But as the dark swallowed me, a vow took root, harder than steel. Iron Hollow wouldn't break me. I'd survive, I'd grow, I'd tear their world apart—for her, for every drop of her blood.The van rattled on, and I waited, my heart beating with her name.