The yard had emptied little by little. The prisoners were being pushed back into the narrow corridors, driven by the curt orders of the masked wardens. The sea air felt heavier than usual, charged with tension.
Frost lingered deliberately, his steps echoing across the damp slabs. His eyes swept over the walls, the rusted chains, the silhouettes disappearing one by one. He said nothing. Since his encounter with the Trine, a fire had been smoldering inside him. He no longer had doubts about his goal: he would get out. No matter the price.
— You walk as if this prison belongs to you.
The voice cracked behind him. Deep, dragging, saturated with a cold arrogance. Frost turned.
A man advanced at a slow pace, flanked by four prisoners even more massive than the wardens themselves. His gait was neither hurried nor tense. Everything about him radiated certainty and domination.
His skull was shaved, a black tattoo snaking along his neck before disappearing beneath his collarbone. His eyes, a metallic gray, fixed on Frost without the slightest hesitation. On his lips floated a smile far too calm to be sincere.
— You. The new one. The man stopped two steps away. I've heard there's fire in your eyes. That interests me.
Frost stayed silent. His fists tightened discreetly.
— I am Veyron. His voice rolled like restrained thunder. Here, everyone listens to me. Everyone bends, except those who end up crushed.
One of the hulks beside him snickered, showing off a row of broken teeth.
— So, will you bend, or will you break? Veyron continued, without raising his tone.
Frost held his gaze. A shadow crossed his features, a new hardness.
— I don't bend.
Silence fell. The four thugs stopped smiling. Veyron's eyes sharpened, like a blade being polished. Then, to everyone's surprise, he let out a short laugh.
— Good. You've got guts. I prefer that. But be careful, kid… This prison swallows the proud faster than the weak.
He stepped closer, his breath thick with salt and menace.
— A word of advice: if you want to survive, don't cross my path too often. Because me… I don't give second chances.
Frost didn't answer. He remained motionless, like a statue, his eyes locked on Veyron's. The silent duel lasted a few seconds, until the man gave a slight nod to his followers. They left as they had come, their leader at the center, always walking with that icy certainty.
Frost clenched his teeth. His heart was pounding, but his mind was clear: this man was a danger. Worse still, he embodied everything the prison sought to create — a tyrant forged from pain and fear.
He lifted his eyes to the black sky where the airships had already vanished.
I will not bend. Not to Veyron. Not to this prison. Not to anyone.
And within the oppressive silence of the walls, a new vow burned inside him, darker than the ones before.
The cell had sunk into silence. Only the metallic groaning of the corridors and the distant crash of the waves disturbed the darkness. The Redhead was already asleep, stretched out on his crude bedding, breathing steadily, almost indifferent to the hell around them.
Frost, however, remained motionless, sitting against the icy wall. His thoughts circled endlessly, haunted by the image of the airships swallowing prisoners and by Veyron's piercing stare. His heart thudded heavily, each pulse bringing him back to the same conclusion: he could not remain weak. Not here. Not now.
He clenched his fists.
— I have to become stronger.
Silently, he slid down to the ground, planting his palms against the cold stone. His body protested, still marked by fatigue and by the scar slashing across his chest, but he refused to give in. He started doing push-ups, his breath ragged, each descent dragging a grimace across his face.
More… he thought, forcing his arms.
Even more.
Sweat quickly beaded on his forehead. His muscles, unaccustomed to effort without magic, were already trembling. But Frost didn't stop. Every push-up was like a blow against his former weakness.
After several dozen, he rolled onto his back and began crunches. His abs burned, his breathing grew ragged, but he continued, his gaze fixed on the dark ceiling. In the silence, he heard nothing but his breath, his heartbeat, and the voice of his determination.
The Redhead cracked one eye open, watching without a word. He watched him strain, collapse, get back up, start again, again and again, until Frost's arms gave out and he collapsed on the ground, drenched in sweat.
— You planning to die on the floor? the Redhead finally growled, his voice low and rough.
Frost lifted his head, panting, his eyes darkened but shining with a strange intensity.
— Better to die strengthening myself… than to live crawling.
A heavy silence followed. The Redhead slowly sat up, an unreadable glint in his gaze. Then he lay back down without another comment, turning his back.
Frost, however, did not stop. He pushed himself again, over and over, his arms trembling, his legs rigid, until his body refused to obey. Lying flat on the cold ground, he closed his eyes, his breath heavy, but a faint smile curved his lips.
He had nothing left, except this: his raw will. And that night, in the shadows of his cell, Frost carved into his flesh the first stone of his metamorphosis.