The iron gate shut behind me with a sound like bone grinding through stone.
Two guards walked at my sides, masked and silent. They didn't speak or push. They didn't need to. One was taller than me by a head, the other shorter but broad through the chest. Their pace was steady, unhurried. They knew I would follow.
The corridor ahead was narrow and rusted. Pipes dripped from the ceiling like veins left open too long. The walls were wet, streaked with what looked like old blood but smelled more like grease and bile. Somewhere far off, something heavy dragged across metal.
The pale boy walked ahead, shoulders hunched. His steps faltered every few feet, like he wasn't sure if we were heading to another trial or a furnace.
We passed a row of cells.
Most were sealed with steel grates. The things inside them were not all whole. One cell held a man whose jaw hung loose, mouth torn open wider than it should have gone. In the next, something twitched in the dark, fast and wet, but I couldn't see what it was.
The third held a woman. Maybe. She had no eyes, but her face was tilted toward us. She smiled.
This is where they keep the forgotten.
We reached a fork. The left hallway looked newer, patched with recent plating. The pale boy was taken that way, shoved through a side door and sealed in.
I kept going straight.
No words. No instructions.
The guard opened a thick steel hatch and nodded. I stepped inside.
The room was a square cell. Cold, tight, lined in matte stone. The walls had no texture, no seams. The ceiling was low, the air motionless. One bulb flickered overhead, casting a sick yellow tint across everything. A drain sat in the center of the floor. Its cover was warped inward.
There were five others already inside.
They didn't speak right away. Just watched.
One sat near the drain with his legs crossed, arms resting on his knees. He was thin and long, with silver cords braided into his dark hair. His eyes trailed along my limbs as if measuring bone structure.
"You're the one from the gate," he said.
I didn't answer.
Another leaned forward from the shadows. Younger. Pale, with a stitched scar running across his neck. His smile was too wide for the shape of his face.
"Heard you killed two before the gate even lifted."
I stepped further into the cell. Slow. Quiet. I didn't look at either of them.
"You're Cravik, aren't you?" someone else asked.
That one was a woman. Her voice had been damaged, raspy, torn. Her skin was pale and blistered in patches, like she'd been scalded. She sat against the wall with her legs drawn up, fingernails tapping lightly on the floor.
The room fell into a tense silence.
I moved to an empty corner and sat. Back to the wall. Legs tucked in.
They watched me for a while longer.
No one asked more questions.
Time passed.
Hard to say how much. The flickering light didn't change. The air stayed still.
Eventually the one with the silver cords spoke again.
"You know what they call this place?" he asked. "Scrap-Rung."
No one responded.
He nodded to himself. "Bottom of the ladder. Useless metal. Stuff that never melted right. Sometimes they send us back down. Sometimes they sell us off. Sometimes they just forget to feed us."
The stitched boy chuckled. "Or they let us rot into each other. Happens faster than you think."
The woman with the ruined voice whispered something under her breath.
I leaned my head back against the wall.
Let them talk. Let them circle. That's all they ever do.
The cell door clicked.
Every head turned.
The man who entered wore a gray coat that hung to his knees. It was clean. Too clean. Not a speck of dirt or sweat or blood on it. His skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp bones. His eyes were gray like old ice.
He didn't walk like a soldier.
He walked like someone who didn't need to fight.
"Stand," he said.
Everyone moved, including me.
He stopped in the center of the room, one gloved hand resting over the drain. He looked around like a teacher counting students.
"My name is Warden Kloch. You won't speak it again unless asked."
No one spoke.
"You've all survived something you weren't meant to. Which means you either have use, or you're an accident. I don't like accidents."
His gaze settled on me.
"Cravik."
I didn't flinch.
"I thought your line was extinct."
I said nothing.
He nodded slowly. "Maybe it is."
He turned back to the rest.
"There will be no fighting here unless I command it. There will be no hierarchy unless I build it. Your next evaluation is not a trial. It is a decision."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper. Red wax seal. Broken.
"Each of you will be called. One by one. You will answer questions. If I like your answers, you'll see another day. If I don't…"
He tapped his boot on the drain once.
Then twice.
Then he walked out.
The door locked behind him.
No one spoke for a long time.
The stitched boy was the first to sit back down, wiping his hands on his pants.
The woman picked at her blistered skin.
The man with the silver cords looked at me again but didn't speak.
I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and stared at the metal door.
They want something. And I'm going to find out what it costs to give it to them.