Ten years. Iron Hollow didn't just take them—it carved them out of me, slow and cruel, like a knife peeling skin. I was sixteen when they slammed the door, a kid choking on Clara's death, her blood still wet in my dreams. By the time I walked out, I was twenty-six, and I wasn't that kid anymore. I was scars and fire, a vow sharpened into something the Coalition would choke on. Iron Hollow tried to break me, but it built me instead.They dragged me here that first night, after the van ride from Nova Rhea's neon heart. Iron Hollow wasn't in the city—it crouched in the wastelands, where the towers' glow faded to dust and bone. The prison was a fortress, half steel, half stone, like some old European dungeon stitched with cyberpunk nightmares. Walls loomed, spiked with sensors, and drones patrolled the sky, their hum a constant itch in my ears. They shoved me through gates that screamed on rusted hinges, into a cell deep in the prison's gut—a box, six feet by eight, with walls that dripped rust and a ceiling that pressed down like a lid. The air tasted of mold and despair, and a single bulb swung above, flickering like it hated being here as much as I did.Year one was hell. I'd curl on the cot, its springs stabbing my back, and see Clara—her silver hair catching plaza lights, her green eyes fading as the lance hit. I'd wake screaming, fists pounding the wall till my knuckles split, blood smearing the stone. "Clara!" I'd shout, like she'd answer, but all I got was silence, or the guards' laughter through the slit in the door. They called me "witch boy," tossing gray paste—food, they said—onto the floor, watching me scramble. It tasted like ash, but I ate, because starving felt like letting them win. I tried her magic, scratching runes with my nails, whispering spells she'd taught me by Thornwick's stream. Nothing. The cell had neural dampeners—Coalition tech that choked magic like a noose. My sparks died, and I'd cry then, face pressed to the cot, hating myself for failing her again.I'd see her in the dark, or think I did—her shadow by the wall, her voice whispering, Live. I'd reach out, desperate, but my hands found air, and the ache would hit harder, a fist in my chest. Guilt was my cellmate—why hadn't I run faster, fought harder, sparked something to save her? I'd pace, six steps one way, six back, muttering apologies she'd never hear. The guards loved it, banging the door to make me jump, their implants glowing blue as they mocked me. "Your witch is dust," one said, spitting through the slit. I lunged, slamming my shoulder into the door, but it didn't budge, and they laughed louder.Year three shifted me. Grief didn't fade—it grew claws, dug deeper, but I started using it. The guards got meaner—beatings if I glared too long, neural shocks that left my teeth rattling, pain sparking down my spine like lightning. I learned to keep my mouth shut, to watch their patterns: when they slept, when the drones hummed loudest, when the dampeners flickered. I stopped screaming for Clara, started talking to her quiet, late at night, promising I'd make it right. I trained my body, because it was all I could control—push-ups till my arms shook, squats till my legs burned, holding my breath till my lungs begged. Clara had said strength wasn't just magic—it was will. I believed her now, even if it hurt.The cell changed me too. My hair grew long, tangled, my skin paled to gray, my bones sharpened under scars. I'd catch my reflection in a puddle—eyes harder, jaw tighter, a stranger staring back. The guards noticed, started chaining my cuffs tighter, but I didn't care. I was building something, even if I didn't know what. I scratched her name—Clara—into the cot's frame, hidden, a secret they couldn't touch. It kept me sane, kept her close.Year five brought fire. Not much, but enough. The dampeners glitched one night—lights flickered, a low buzz died—and I felt it, a heat in my veins, like Clara's hand on mine. I whispered her spell, soft so the drones wouldn't hear, and a flame sparked, small as a candle, dancing in my palm. My heart jumped, and I laughed, ragged, the first time in years. I hid it fast, snuffing it when boots echoed, but it was mine—her gift, alive. I practiced in secret, when the guards slept, carving runes under the cot, sparking flames that grew, bit by bit. They'd burn me if they caught me, but I didn't care. It was proof I wasn't nothing.Iron Hollow was worse by then. The air grew thicker, like breathing mud, and screams echoed more—new prisoners, witches maybe, or just folks who'd said no to the chip. I heard guards talk, their voices low through the vents: Nova Rhea was tighter now, NeuraTech in every head, magic a ghost story. I didn't believe it. Clara had believed in witches, in a fight left somewhere. I clung to that, even if I didn't feel it. My flames were stronger, enough to melt a nail I'd pried loose, enough to dream of breaking locks. I started planning—not just escape, but revenge. The Spire, the enforcers, the crowds who'd cheered her death—I'd burn them all.Year seven brought voices. Not Clara's—others, through the grates, faint and careful. "You alive, witch boy?" one asked, a woman, her voice cracked but kind. I didn't answer at first, didn't trust it. Coalition tricks, maybe, to dig out secrets. But she kept talking—names of villages, spells I half-knew, whispers of a resistance hiding in the moors. I listened, lying on the floor, ear to the grate. She called herself Mara, said she'd known witches like Clara. I told her nothing, but her words stuck, like seeds in dirt. If there was a fight out there, I'd find it. Not to save magic—to destroy the ones who'd killed it.By year ten, I was ready, or as ready as I'd get. My magic wasn't Clara's—she'd weave spells like songs—but it was mine. I could summon fire, hot enough to scar stone, bend shadows to hide my hands, snap cuffs if I pushed hard. My body was lean, tough, built from a decade of pain—push-ups, fights with guards who got too close, nights pacing to stay sharp. My mind was colder, every hour spent mapping Nova Rhea in my head—its towers, its slums, its heart I'd rip out. I'd lost her smile, her warmth, but I had her words: Live. I'd live to make them bleed.The guards sensed it. They doubled my chains, checked my cell more, their implants scanning for tricks. "You're a dead man walking," one said, slamming my face to the wall. I didn't flinch, just smiled, blood in my teeth. Let them think they'd won. I was waiting—waiting for a chance, a crack in their machine.Then, one night, the lock glowed green. I froze, heart pounding, as the door creaked open, slow, like it was scared. No guards, no drones—just a girl, silver hair catching the bulb's flicker, blue eyes bright and strange. "Asher Wolfe," she said, voice soft but sure, "you're coming with me." She called herself Daria Vale, and I didn't know her, didn't want her. But those eyes held something—hope, maybe, or madness—and I stepped forward, my vow alive, burning brighter than ever.
