A Werewolf's Unexpected Mate-Chapter 137: The Warden’s Truth
•Shadow Ridge Prison•
[Kai’s POV]
We had arrived at Shadow Ridge Prison just before the last sliver of daylight vanished behind the jagged, black peaks that gave the place its name. The transfer of the prisoners had been a tense, silent affair conducted under the watchful eyes of Zane Asher’s guards. Now, more than an hour later, Shin and I were still waiting in the sparse, stone-walled waiting room, the only furniture a pair of hard wooden benches and a small, cold fireplace.
The official business was done. The prisoners were logged, processed, and locked away. But the real work—Zane’s work—was just beginning. Even from here, insulated by thick walls and heavy doors, we could hear it. Not constant, but intermittent—a sharp, ragged scream would pierce the silence, cut off abruptly, only to be followed minutes later by another, more desperate one. It was a grim soundtrack that made the chilly air feel colder.
"We’ve been waiting here for over an hour," Shin grumbled, breaking the heavy quiet. He was perched on the edge of his bench, his posture rigid with impatience. On his shoulder, his monkey companion, Mon, meticulously peeled a small banana, completely unperturbed by the distant sounds of agony. "Don’t you think we should go talk to Zane already? We have our own duties. This isn’t a social visit."
I shifted on my own bench. "But he said we should wait for him to summon us," I replied, my voice sounding more hesitant than I intended. The truth was, a part of me was relieved to wait. The screams were a stark reminder of the kind of justice dispensed here. But a larger, more professional part agreed with Shin. We needed information. "It’s his domain. We should respect his process."
Shin let out a sharp, dismissive snort. "His ’process’ is taking too long. I’m a traveler, a peacemaker. My job doesn’t stop at delivery. I need intel on that gun production warehouse, and more urgently, the mass-produced black magic restraints." He stood up abruptly, the motion causing Mon to clutch his hair for balance, the half-eaten banana still in his tiny hand. "I’m not waiting for a summons that might come at midnight." Without another word, he strode to the heavy iron-banded door and pushed it open, stepping out into the grim corridor beyond.
I sighed, the sound loud in the empty room. He really is as impatient as ever. After a moment’s hesitation, driven by duty and a reluctant curiosity, I followed him.
The corridor outside the waiting room was a study in stark, oppressive order. The stone blocks were fitted together seamlessly, the floor swept clean. Torches in iron sconces cast a flickering, orange light that did little to dispel the deep shadows. As we walked, we passed rows of cell doors, each with a narrow, barred window at eye level.
I glanced inside as we passed. The prisoners within were a varied lot—humans, werewolves, witches. Some lay on their simple cots, sleeping or staring blankly at the ceiling. Others paced their small confines. One was laughing quietly to himself, a sound more unnerving than the distant screams. But they all shared one thing: they looked... healthy. Their faces weren’t gaunt with starvation. Their clothes, while plain, weren’t rags. The cells themselves, from what I could see, were clean. No visible filth, no piles of refuse. And the air... I took a cautious breath. There was the expected smell of old stone, cold metal, and unwashed bodies, but it lacked the overwhelming, gut-churning stench of decay and waste I associated with most dungeons. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was... maintained.
"This prison," I murmured, my voice low as we continued deeper, the sounds of suffering growing steadily louder. "It’s... well-maintained."
"Is this your first time here?" Shin asked, not breaking his stride. Mon had finished his banana and was now grooming Shin’s hair, looking for all the world like a tourist on a pleasant outing.
"It’s my second time," I admitted. "The first was with General Renji, but I only ever saw the receiving yard and that waiting room." I gestured vaguely behind us. "This... this is my first time seeing the cells. And the prisoners." Another scream, closer this time, echoed down the hall, making me flinch minutely.
"Zane is a merciless warden," Shin stated, his tone factual, not judgmental. "But he runs a tight ship. Maintains this place as well as his retired father did. Maybe better. Efficiency is his religion." Mon chittered in agreement, as if he’d heard this assessment before.
We reached the source of the noise. The corridor ended at a large room sealed by a door, and wall of thick, clear glass.
Inside, a man was bound to a heavy, reinforced chair in the center of the room. Silver magic-restraint chains—the common kind, not the black-market variants we feared—glinted cruelly against his skin, which was slick with sweat and blood. The sigil burned into the flesh of his chest marked him as a stray werewolf, packless and outlawed. Standing before him, his back mostly to us, was Zane Asher. The warden wore simple, dark leathers, now spattered with red droplets. His posture was relaxed, almost conversational.
To the side, a witch—pale, trembling, her own wrists bearing the faint marks of control cuffs—stood ready. Her job was clear.
We couldn’t hear their conversation. The glass was soundproofed for speech, but not for screams. But we could see everything. Zane would lean in, ask a question. The man would shake his head, or snarl something. Then Zane would move.
He was methodical, not frenzied. A brutal punch to the kidney. The sharp crack of a whip against already torn flesh. The slow, deliberate removal of a fingernail with a pair of pliers. He used tools—a rod that crackled with painful, low-level electricity, a small, sharp blade. The stray would arch and scream, the sound piercing the barrier and filling our corridor. His body would convulse against the restraints. When the man’s screams faded to whimpers and his head lolled, when the bleeding threatened to become fatal, Zane would glance at the witch. She would step forward, her hands glowing with a greenish healing light, knitting torn flesh and staunching blood flow just enough to keep him alive and conscious. Then Zane would begin again.
"This is cruel..." The words escaped my lips before I could stop them, a whisper of visceral horror.
Shin didn’t look away from the glass. "It’s necessary," he grunted, his voice a low rasp. "The information in that room could save a village." He finally turned his head, his grumpy face set in serious lines. "Zane doesn’t do this for fun. He does it because it works. And he only does it to the ones who’ve earned it."
I had no answer. The philosophical argument was one thing. The bloody, repetitive reality behind the glass was another. It felt like watching a soul being methodically dismantled, payment being extracted in raw agony for sins I could only imagine.
Suddenly, the pattern broke. The bound man, after a particularly vicious shock that made his spine bow, stopped screaming. He started laughing. It was a wet, bubbling, utterly broken sound, his eyes wide and unseeing. He had shattered.
Zane watched him for a moment, his head tilted as if observing a failed experiment. Then, with a swift, powerful motion, he drove his fist into the man’s gut. The hysterical laughter cut off. The man’s body went completely slack, unconscious at last.
Zane straightened up. He pulled off his bloodied gloves, dropping them into a metal basin held by a silent attendant who had materialized from the shadows. Then, he turned and his black gaze landed directly on us through the glass. There was no surprise in it, only a cold acknowledgment.
He pushed open a heavy door of the interrogation room and stepped into our corridor. The scent of ozone, blood, and fear wafted out with him.
"Didn’t I tell the both of you to wait in the waiting room?" Zane’s voice was like the wind over glaciers—cold, dry, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Shin didn’t blink. He met Zane’s stare directly, his own expression one of impatient neutrality. "We’ve waited long enough. What did you get out of them?" he demanded, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
Zane’s lips thinned. He leaned back against the stone doorframe, crossing his arms. He looked... disappointed. Not angry, but as if we were students who had failed a simple test.
"I have tormented all of them. One by one. The man you just saw lose his mind was the last of the batch you delivered." He spoke slowly, as if explaining something to children.
"Get to the point," Shin snapped, his patience visibly gone.
Zane’s cold eyes flickered to Shin, then back to a spot on the interrogation wall. I watched the dynamic between the ruthless warden and the blunt peacemaker. In this place of calculated horror, their clash of styles was its own kind of tension.
