The Valtoria prison for mages, like all its counterparts in Nova Orda, was an imposing and gloomy construction situated on the outskirts of the city. The structure was a mix of red brick buildings and high walls crowned with barbed wire, giving a constant impression of darkness and oppression. As the main entrance drew near, it was possible to feel the cold, damp air emanating from the place.

The guards patrolling the watchtowers and walls wore black uniforms with golden buttons and a prison emblem on their chests. They also carried an array of weapons, from batons to pistols. The prisoners, on the other hand, wore worn gray jumpsuits marked with a number on their backs for identification.

Prisons for mages were depressing and dark places almost by rule, with no benefits or comforts for the prisoners and a strict and repetitive daily routine. The incarcerated wizards were controlled by the guard contingent, and the security measures were what could be afforded given the scant information Nova Orda had about the phenomenon of life energy manipulation, coupled with the limited effectiveness and will of the nation's power structure to operate institutions. The truth was that regardless of the intelligence of the security, or the effectiveness of Nova Orda's political and military apparatus, hope for those discovered and locked up as mages was practically nil.

Grant was a tall man with broad shoulders, whose steps resonated through the corridors of the wizard prison. He would be just over forty years old, but his stern expression and already gray hair gave the impression that he had lived more than he really appeared. He dressed impeccably, in a custom-fitted black suit that accentuated his imposing figure. His white shirt was perfectly ironed, and his red tie, a touch of color in his sober attire, was knotted precisely. A gold watch hung from his pocket, and a golden badge on his lapel marked his rank as prison director. Although many of his days passed monotonously, limited to fulfilling a task that had been assigned to him, without ever feeling real excitement for his work, Grant was recognized as an intelligent and effective official throughout his long career. Most likely, that was the reason he had been given the opportunity to rise through the ranks of Nova Orda's armed forces, without the need to seek friends in high places or attract special attention. The mentality of the prison director could be summed up in efficiency to keep the peace.

Although Grant was more concerned with finishing his week without leaving any work pending so he could enjoy a couple of precious hours of rest, the morning of that day found him supervising the confinement center to make sure everything was in place. In a few hours, he would receive a new prisoner, and since this would bring with it an uncomfortable moment of collaboration with the Internal Magic Security Military Unit and the traditional police of Valtoria, he didn't intend to leave any elements they could seize to criticize his work.

Grant stepped out into the prison yard to receive the new prisoner and their escort. He approached them with a slight smile on his face, trying to convey confidence and keep the matter within professional collaboration. Sergeant Winston, who led the entourage, for his part, had a mocking and disdainful expression.

"Welcome to the Nova Orda prison! I'm the director, Grant. I hope you had a pleasant and trouble-free journey," said Grant stoically. Winston burst into laughter and approached Grant with a malicious grin on his face.

"A pleasant journey? To a prison of freaks? I don't know what you're talking about, Grant. But I suppose I couldn't expect a decent welcome from someone like you," he said before letting out another grotesque laugh that made his beard and prominent belly shake.

Grant remained impassive in the face of Winston's words.

"Well, I'll need you to hand over the prisoner's papers and take him to his cell. Diego, please, accompany our new inmate and make sure he's... alive," said Grant, pointing to the young man in handcuffs, covered with a tattered blanket and little else. He seemed almost unconscious after the beating he had received from the Internal Magic Security Military agents, another name for the military-police group, which was responsible for hunting "mages," who by law represented a danger to national security.

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Diego nodded and approached Winston to take the prisoner's papers. The sergeant handed them over with a twisted smile on his face and took the opportunity to add an unpleasant comment.

"Make sure to give him a warm welcome, Diego. We know how important these terrorists are to you," he said with a cruel laugh.

"Wanqian," Diego read aloud as he looked at the papers. The name reaffirmed what the slanted eyes of the boy, bruised by the blows, had led him to infer at first sight. The prisoner was a Fengnian, or at least his ancestry was.

Grant frowned at Winston's words.

"That's enough, Winston. Leave the kid alone. Keeping alive the half-dead subjects you bring me is his job," said Grant, indicating Diego and the new prisoner.

"And now, if you don't have anything else to contribute, you can leave, Subofficer," Grant concluded, emphasizing the latter. Despite Winston having some freedom of action among the different uniformed groups, he was still a Sergeant, and therefore, his subordinate.

Winston let out a laugh that didn't match his eyes; Grant was tougher and more incisive than he seemed. However, the sergeant maintained his arrogant attitude.

"As you wish, Grant. I'm just a humble servant doing my job," he said in a singsong tone with a malicious smile. "Next time, maybe I'll come to... entertain myself in your prison cells, Officer," he added perversely before turning and walking away with his entourage.

Grant sighed and turned to head back to his office. He knew it would be difficult to maintain order in the prison with someone like Winston in the Internal Security Unit. But he was determined to do everything possible to demonstrate that his work was impeccable, which, after all, was his greatest pride.

When Wanqian managed to regain some degree of lucidity, seemingly thanks to injections of what were probably painkillers, and the rapid healing of that young blond-haired man who had transferred him, he managed to take a small survey of the place where he was.

The cell was small and dark. The walls, made of worn bricks, were covered in mold in some areas. The floor, on the other hand, seemed to be made of concrete, cracked and stained from moisture. There was a small window on the wall opposite the door, barely letting in a little natural light from a sun that was already beginning to set. The bed was a narrow metal bunk with a thin, worn mattress, and the bedding was in poor condition. A small desk and chair completed the furnishings of the cell.

The sound of a faint human sigh made him realize that he was on the top bunk, and he wasn't alone in the cell. With effort, he moved his sore head to look down at the bottom bunk and saw a woman, who lay with her knees raised, returning his gaze. She had beautiful, large eyes, which didn't soften the severity and dislike of her expression.

"A teenager," the girl snorted. "It makes sense. For this bunch of pigs, we're subhuman. Why would they have any problem putting an adult woman and a walking hormonal mess in a small cell together?" Despite her unfriendly tone, the woman spoke matter-of-factly about the situation. She wasn't surprised to be in a shared cell with a teenage boy, as distasteful as it seemed to her.

Wanqian made an effort to sit up and dress in his new uniform, a gray full-body jumpsuit, completely flat, with only the number 33 in yellow on the back as a distinctive. It seemed strange to him at that moment, as even harboring two or three inmates per cell, the prison didn't seem to be large enough to accommodate more than thirty people.

The girl stood up, and Wanqian couldn't help but notice her beautiful features, her white skin, and her deep, dark eyes. Her long, black hair was tied in a ponytail, exposing the delicacy of her neck. She wore a short-sleeved shirt and the bottom part of the prison uniform. Even with the weak light of dusk coming through the small cell window, the boy could discern the bruises and scars on the woman's slender body, which he without much fear of being wrong associated with the mistreatment suffered by the prisoners.

"Lucía," the woman said. "And right now, you're not in a position to feel sorry for anyone's injuries," she added, stretching her arm. The boy hesitated before returning the greeting.

"Wanqian," he replied, shaking her hand