Unbroken: The Last Lunar Heir

Silver Cuffs and Black Iron

The interior of the transport was pitch-black, smelling of iron, damp leather, and old grease.

I sat squeezed onto a narrow metal bench, my arms pinned behind my back by the heavy silver suppressors. The metal was unnaturally cold, drinking the warmth from my blood and leaving an aching numbness in its place.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I focused every ounce of my mind inward, searching for that violent wave of pressure that had saved me in the alleyway.

Come on, I begged silently. Just a spark.

Nothing.

I tried again, breathing through my nose and pushing against the cold void in my chest.

Nothing.

A third time, I tried to force the heat to rise, straining until my teeth ground together. The darkness inside me remained completely still.

A surge of helpless frustration boiled over. I slammed my hand sideways against the iron wall of the truck. Pain exploded through my knuckles as skin split against the rusted metal. Wet blood began to drip down my fingers.

There was no hidden magic. No protective aura. I was just human, bleeding in the dark.

From somewhere deeper inside the heavy vehicle, beyond the steel bulkhead partition, I heard the faint clinking of heavy iron chains dragging across the floor. A raspy, wet cough echoed through the dark, followed by a muffled, low growl that vibrated through the metal frame.

My breath hitched. I was not the only prisoner in this truck.

Across from me sat two uniformed guards. Through the dim amber glow of the dashboard lights, I watched them carefully.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, my voice raw and uneven. "Is this a prison?"

The guard on the left, a thick-necked man with a jagged scar across his chin, did not even turn his head.

"Shut it, diner girl," he grunted, his voice rough and dismissive. "Commander said no talking."

"I have a right to know where I am," I pushed, leaning forward slightly.

The second guard, taller and leaner with a cold, clinical expression, finally shifted his posture. "Save your breath. You will answer to the Elders by morning, if you make it through intake."

As he spoke, I noticed something strange. Neither of them would look me in the eye. When their eyes flicked toward me, they stared at my jaw, my shoulders, or the blood dripping from my hand. They deliberately avoided eye contact, their shoulders stiff with a quiet, lingering tension. They were uncomfortable.

The heavy truck slowed down, its brakes squealing against wet pavement. Heavy iron gears ground in the distance, followed by the deep thud of massive timber gates swinging open.

I leaned my head back, peering out the narrow, reinforced window slit near the roof of the cab.

Giant black stone walls loomed into the night sky, topped with jagged parapets and long iron spikes. Above us, the thunderstorm raged violently, streaks of lightning tearing open the clouds and heavy rain pouring down in sheets.

Then the truck crossed the threshold under the heavy stone archway.

The instant we passed the inner gate, the rain vanished. The storm was still raging directly overhead, but inside the perimeter walls, the air was bone-dry and freezing cold, as if an invisible dome kept the elements at bay.

The transport ground to a final halt.

The heavy rear doors unlocked with a metallic clack and swung outward. Cold night air rushed into the cabin. Standing on the dry cobblestones outside was Commander Jaxen Cross.

He stood with his hands resting lightly behind his back. The cut on his cheekbone had stopped bleeding, leaving a dark, dried streak against his pale skin. His eyes were cold and completely unreadable beneath the dim courtyard lamps.

"Out," Jaxen said.

The rough guard grabbed my shoulder, dragging me to the edge of the tailgate. My legs were numb from the cold, and as my shoes hit the cobblestones, my knees buckled.

Jaxen caught my upper arm before I hit the ground.

The instant his bare hand gripped my sleeve and touched the skin of my forearm, that same sharp, electric static snapped between us. The pulse of sudden heat flared in my chest for a single beat.

Jaxen did not flinch. His expression remained carved from absolute ice. He held me upright until I found my footing, then released his grip immediately.

"Hold her," Jaxen commanded, stepping back.

The guards seized my arms. Jaxen turned on his heel, heading toward a set of heavy iron doors set into the base of a tall stone tower.

"Walk," he added over his shoulder.

I stumbled after him, flanked by the guards. As Jaxen moved ahead to speak with two spear-bearing sentries at the entrance, the guards holding my arms slowed their pace slightly.

"That's impossible," the scarred guard muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the wind.

"If the Commander felt it..." the leaner guard began.

"Don't finish that sentence," the scarred guard snapped back in a harsh whisper. "Keep your eyes forward."

I glanced between them, my heart pounding, but neither man said another word.

They marched me down a narrow, winding staircase of damp black stone that spiraled deep into the ground. The air grew thick with the smell of old dust, rust, and dried moss.

At the bottom of the stairs, the guard unlocked a thick iron door and shoved me inside a small, freezing cell. The stone floor was bare except for a narrow raised slab against the back wall.

They unhooked the chain from my cuffs, anchoring the silver suppressors to a heavy iron ring embedded directly into the stone wall behind me.

"Evaluation at dawn," the clinical guard said flatly.

He pulled the heavy door shut. The iron lock turned with a heavy, final thud.

Outside the iron bars of my cell window, the single wall torch flickered wildly. Its flame hissed once, twice, and died out completely.

Darkness swallowed the room.

I sat frozen on the cold stone floor, listening to the silence of the underground corridor. Then, somewhere deep in the dark passages beyond my cell, something low and guttural growled.