Rusted Chains Novels & Stories

~Aeron I woke to the stench of iron. Not the clean, sharp tang of weapons, but the stale, suffocating musk of rust and blood-soaked stone. The cell was small—barely enough room to pace three steps across. Every surface was damp, sweating with moisture that made the air heavy. I flexed my wrists, though the chains had long since been removed. The only prison now was the bars.

They sang. Every corner of the realm shimmered with rebirth. Emily was not just a queen. She was a revolution wearing a crown. They brought Dama with them, holding his little hands in theirs as he toddled between them. The boy was growing quickly — bright-eyed and curious, asking questions about everything he saw. “Why do we burn the chains, Mama?” he asked one morning, his voice high and clear. Emily knelt down and brushed a lock of hair from his face. “Because chains should never touch the skin of the innocent. We burn them so they can never hurt anyone again.”

I wanted to hurt her the way she was hurting me. But the chains, thick and heavy, jerked me back with brutal force, just as before. The rusted metal bit even deeper into my wrists, sending a searing, white-hot pain through my arms and shoulders. I managed to shuffle forward barely two or three steps, a desperate, pathetic shuffle, before the chains pulled taut, snapping me back. The sudden, violent stop sent a fresh wave of agony through my body.

Chains. When I tried to move, the sound of metal scraping on metal cut through the low murmur. I forced my eyes open. For a few seconds, everything was a blur of shapes and color, pale light, shadowed faces, a smell of sweat and different scents. My head drooped forward, strands of my hair sticking to the sweat on my brow. I was upright. Suspended. Silver cuffs bit into my wrists, linked by short lengths of chain to a metal bar behind me. Another chain ran down my chest to the floor, where it connected to a ring bolted into the platform beneath my feet.

Damien Turning, my gaze landed on the wall—a gallery of power. Whips hung in clean order, each speaking a different promise, some soft and teasing, others carved for pain. Steel and suede Collars rested beneath them, and in shadows like trophies. Chains looped with military precision, their gleam catching in the light. I walked slowly, deliberately. My presence filled the room, I reached out. picked up a chain, letting it slide through my fingers. The weight was satisfying, honest. Tools like these didn’t lie. You knew exactly what they were made for.

I could smell it, taste its acrid sting in the back of my throat. No. I yanked harder, muscles straining, breath heaving. The scent of damp stone and rust filled my lungs. The sound of water dripping from somewhere above was too familiar. The chains rattling over my head, too familiar. And the sound of boots—heavy, slow on concrete—hitting the ground, too fucking familiar. No. No. No. My body jerked violently, panic clawing through me, my muscles screaming as I yanked against the chains. I couldn’t—I couldn’t be here again. This can’t be happening. Not again.

I shivered as my gaze darted around the dimly lit room, my heart hammering against my ribs. This wasn’t just a bedroom. It was a prison. The walls were made of rough, uneven stone, darkened with age and moisture. Chains dangled from the ceiling, some rusted, others gleaming as if they had been recently used. More chains were secured to the walls, their ends coiled like serpents, waiting. The flickering lanterns cast long, eerie shadows, making the walls seem like they were shifting, breathing. And then, there was the bed. It was massive, its frame made of dark iron, etched with intricate but ominous carvings. Black sheets covered the mattress, blending into the gloom of the room. But it wasn

Around us, the howls and screams of prisoners long forgotten in the dungeons bounced off the walls. One particular scream was music to my ears. I stood at the edge of the iron circle etched into the floor, watching with glee as Gordon thrashed against the binding chains that held him to a metal chair bolted to the floor. He thrashed and howled, fighting against the chains, but the more he struggled, the tighter they wound around his wrists and ankles. The chains were made with enchanted silver, so every time he tried to Shift to break out, they burned him, eliciting more screams from him.

Melody said, her voice full of remorse. "Ancient chains?" I repeated Melody's words, wondering what's so special about these ancient chains. " Yes. The person bound with them is incapable of escaping. Once they try escaping, the chains will burn through their skin. The person will be paralyzed in pain and will be unable to escape. They are made from the purest of silver and are very rare. Only a few people can use them." Melody explained, her voice tinged with so much seriousness that I gasped.

Frost The shadows have teeth. They have teeth, and they rip and tear. I throw my weight against the rusted chains holding me in place. I don’t know this room. How did I become chained? The heavy pipe above groans under the force of my weight, but it doesn’t give. I’m in slivers. In tatters. Nothing but pieces. There’s blood on my skin, dripping down my arms and torso. No, it’s not blood. It’s shadows.