Children of Grafts

The echo of Ruvan's footsteps trailed him like ghosts as he fled the dungeon corridor. His breath hitched, sharp and shallow, caught somewhere between disbelief and nausea. The darkness behind him felt heavier now—like it had weight, like it watched.

He stopped in a narrow archway, pressing his palm against the cold wall. His stomach turned again, and this time he doubled over, heaving bile onto the stone. The taste of iron filled his mouth. It wasn't blood. Not his, anyway.

Not yet.

"Ruvan?" Kellan's voice was a whisper through the narrow tunnels. The boy's footsteps approached from above. "Ruvan, what—?"

Ruvan turned sharply, eyes wild. "Don't come down here."

Kellan stopped halfway down the stairs, eyes adjusting to the gloom. "What did you see?"

"I said don't—" Ruvan bit the words off. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, straightened, and staggered away from the vomit, trying to find his voice again. "You were right," he muttered. "There's something wrong. Deeply wrong."

The passage twisted behind him like a snake coiled in shadow. The stone walls bore faint red stains—some fresh, some long since dried. Ruvan couldn't look at them anymore.

He pushed past Kellan, brushing his shoulder against him as he climbed the steps. "We're leaving."

Kellan didn't argue. He followed in silence.

They emerged into the open air behind the barracks, not far from the servant quarters Lord Maeven had assigned them. The early dawn was just breaking—grey light spilling across the rooftops of Iron Hold. A city built on steel and secrets. And far beneath it, nightmares forged in flesh.

They said nothing until they reached their small stone room. Ruvan shut the door and leaned against it.

"There were children," he said finally, voice low and unsteady. "Locked in cages. Bound in chains. Some were… changed."

Kellan frowned, still trying to catch up. "Changed how?"

Ruvan looked at him, his expression hollow.

"One had a jaw made of silver. Grafted metal. Another had an eye socket filled with some kind of glowing crystal. One boy… he didn't even blink. His skin was cracked like ceramic, but he was breathing."

Kellan sat down slowly on the edge of the narrow bed. "Experimentation?"

Ruvan nodded.

"What kind of monster does that to children?"

The words hung between them, heavy as iron.

Maeven, Ruvan didn't say. Not yet. Not until he knew more.

But the images were burned into his mind. The girl in the cage who didn't speak. The one who clutched a rusted gear like it was a doll. The boy with hands missing—replaced by skeletal brass constructs that trembled with every breath.

"They didn't look alive," Ruvan said, more to himself than to Kellan. "But they weren't dead either."

"What would Maeven gain from this?"

Ruvan swallowed. "Soldiers, maybe. Slaves. Weapons. All fused into one."

A long silence followed. Kellan rubbed his face and shook his head.

"I thought the wars ended decades ago," he muttered. "What enemy is he preparing for?"

Ruvan's hand drifted unconsciously to the sword resting by the wall. Solrend. Its hilt pulsed faintly in the dim room, like it could hear their conversation. Like it approved.

Kellan followed his gaze.

"Does it know something we don't?"

Ruvan didn't answer. But the warmth in his palm every time he held Solrend—it felt almost like agreement. Encouragement.

Burn it down. Right the wrongs. Start again.

He wasn't ready to speak that aloud either.

That night, he didn't sleep.

He sat at the window instead, watching the city breathe. Smoke from forges drifted into the sky like prayers, and somewhere beneath it all, children whimpered in silence. No one could hear them. No one wanted to.

When dawn finally came, he made a decision.

They returned to the lower hallways—not the dungeons this time, but the records chamber in the keep's west wing. Guards stood posted, but the sword at Ruvan's side now carried weight in Iron Hold. No one questioned him. Lord Maeven had made sure of that.

He stepped inside the records room, Kellan close behind. Rows of shelves stretched the length of the stone chamber, packed with ledgers, scrolls, and wax-sealed files.

"What are we looking for?" Kellan asked.

"Names. Medical records. Project logs. Anything that mentions… modifications."

Kellan raised an eyebrow. "You think there's paperwork for that kind of evil?"

"I think whoever's doing this believes it's noble work," Ruvan said grimly. "And those types always keep notes."

They searched for hours. Dust choked the air, and most of the documents were irrelevant—trade records, tax audits, militia rosters. But halfway through the second shelf, Ruvan found it.

A thin black ledger with no title.

He opened it slowly.

Inside were neatly written names. Ages. Conditions. Modifications attempted. Success rates.

He stopped at the fourth page. His jaw tightened.

"Thalen Veyn. Age 12. Crystal integration rejected. Subject entered seizure-state and terminated after 3 minutes."

Kellan looked over his shoulder. "Veyn?"

"Thera's family," Ruvan whispered. "Her brother?"

He turned the page. More names. Some crossed out, others marked with symbols—green ink for "stable," red for "deceased."

Dozens of children. Possibly hundreds.

All hidden beneath Iron Hold.

When they left the archives, the city felt colder.

Ruvan knew he couldn't confront Maeven yet—not without understanding the full extent of what was happening. He needed to learn more. He needed proof.

That night, he returned alone to the dungeons.

This time, he didn't sneak. He walked directly past the outer guards with Solrend visible on his back and a forged writ of permission in his hand.

The guards glanced at the paper, nodded, and let him pass.

Down he went, past the stone steps, deeper into the belly of Iron Hold. The torchlight flickered. The smell was worse now. Less rot, more metal and ash.

He reached the same hall. The same cages.

This time, he didn't flinch.

He approached a girl—no older than ten. Her eyes were milky white, but they followed him with eerie precision. A steel plate covered half her skull, and thin copper threads ran beneath her skin like veins.

She didn't speak. But she didn't cower either.

Ruvan knelt beside her cage.

"My name is Ruvan," he said softly.

She tilted her head.

"Do you remember your name?"

Silence.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a cloth-wrapped roll of bread. He unwrapped it and held it through the bars. Her hands were trembling, but she took it.

"Where are your parents?"

She didn't answer.

"Do you know who did this to you?"

Still no answer. But she pointed toward the far end of the hall.

Ruvan stood and followed her gesture.

At the end of the hallway was a reinforced door, sealed with iron bolts. No light escaped from the seams.

Behind it, he felt something.

Not just fear. Not just pain.

Power.

It radiated through the metal like heat from a dying star.

He didn't open the door. Not yet.

But he would.

When he returned to the surface, dawn was breaking again.

Kellan waited by the gate, arms crossed.

"You went alone."

"I needed to," Ruvan said. "But I'm not going back down there until we know more."

Kellan nodded. "So what now?"

"We talk to Elion."

"The priest?"

"He was quiet when we met him. But he knows something. Maybe about Solrend. Maybe about the grafts. Maybe both."

Kellan sighed. "And if he doesn't talk?"

Ruvan looked toward the keep's high towers.

"Then we go back to the dungeons," he said. "And we start breaking locks."