Rusted Chains Novels & Stories

I slowly raise my chin to see what it is. Chains. Dark, cold, and salty chains. I can smell the sea on them. The long years of the tides have created crustaceans on the surface of the metal. The poke my wrists, making them itchy and hurt all at once. I shift around, but even my skinny wrists aren't enough to slip through the metal that pinches and bites my skin. Cold Iron.

It took a while, but eventually, he came up with the chains. “Here,” he'd tossed them into my hands. “Wrap this around him. It should be able to hold him…” “For how long?” I'd cut in. “Long enough to be able to figure out a way out of all of this.” I snapped back to the present again, once the memory had cleared. The chains shimmered like obsidian dipped in moonlight. The said chain buzzed with runes I couldn't recognize, and it made my stomach churn. I wasn't as knowledgeable when it came to werewolf lore and stuff, but even I could tell that these chains weren't meant for an ordinary wolf. They were meant to hold something ancient and twisted, something akin to what Darius had become.

I would not let him taint my soil nor find any peace in death. I had the supplies I needed in the shed behind my cabin. Three years ago, after I had sent Stone to the same fate he had deserved, I had reached out to a blacksmith, who made me a custom order of iron chains infused with silver. He was a professional with quality work and had not asked questions. I had driven four hours to pick up the chains, and when the first set worked out so well, I ordered a couple more.

Trayaksh wished to give her the freedom which she was longing for since an eternity but only if he knew that the blurred lines of their past were still chaining them with the tragic thread of destruction which was bound to be the eternal truth of their story. And love between them was beyond impossible as his past sins had already broken the bonny fantasy which she once had woven inside her sterling heart. But here she was, still chained in the blurred and dark past. Chained inside those blurred yet tormenting nine years during which the darkness seeped inside the deepest of her parts making her hollow. Nothing was left for her except the blurred chains of past holding her down and captivati

Maybe days. His body ached in scattered fragments rather than a whole. Every joint screamed, every muscle twitched, and his wrists—his wrists felt as though they were being torn from the bone. Chains. That realization struck like a blade. Marek tried to move. The harsh rattle of iron answered him. Cold metal had eaten into his wrists. The chains were pulled taut above his head, suspending his arms in a cruel stretch that forced his chest forward. His toes barely touched the ground. His shoulders were on fire, every movement threatening to tear them from their sockets.

Alpha Reed stepped forward, his eyes narrowing at my bloody and burned wrists and the silver chains that held them. “There is a lot that would be more fun,” He said, and I shivered as he caged me into his arms, pressing his chest to my back before grabbing my chains and ripping them from the wall. The implication of his words settled deep in my chest, and terror flooded my veins as his breath fanned over my neck as he spoke. “For now, you’re coming with me, white wolf.”

This was just like watching myself bleed and my skin tear, just letting it happen without having to do anything about it, silently praying to the moon goddess that it would end. And today? Today was even more dreadful. The Night of Chains, as it was called. And this night, death would be the kindest thing you would receive. As I staggered into the hall, my breath hitched. Huge, obsidian sculptures carved from ancient blackstones, holding flickering flames across the walls. And from the ceiling, chains were hung as decorations in place of chandeliers. I saw as dozens of those chains pulsed and glistened with deadly magic. And on each stone, intricate symbols covered them, glowing as though en

One thing at a time. Delilah crouches in front of me and starts to fiddle with the iron chains binding my limbs. Although they’re secure now that they’ve been fastened and I don’t have free hands to undo them, the chains themselves are old and rusty. Delilah’s arms are scratched and bloody, nicked with a million little cuts. “It’s okay,” she assured me softly.

The stairs were narrow and steep, the walls were damp, and the air grew heavier with every step we took. The dungeons were dark, darker than anything I had ever seen, and the torches on the walls did little to push back the shadows. The air was damp and heavy, and it smelled of rust and rot and something else. Something metallic that I did not want to name. It smelled like old blood. The walls were lined with chains, thick and rusted, and they hung from the stone like dead vines. Some of them had manacles attached, and the manacles were stained with dark red, and I could see where prisoners had worn the metal smooth with their struggles.