Irontraz Prison was not merely a prison.
It was a graveyard built for the living.
Across the world, when rulers wished to make certain that a criminal would never again see the sky as a free person, they sent that individual to Irontraz Island, a lonely patch of land no larger than six square kilometers, rising like a dark stone from the sea, with black walls, watchtowers, and iron gates standing at its center like the clenched fist of the world.
For fifty years, not a single prisoner had escaped.
That fact alone had become part of its legend.
People spoke of Irontraz Prison the way sailors spoke of whirlpools and mountains spoke of storms, with a mixture of fear and reluctant respect.
Once someone entered those walls, there were only two paths left before them.
Either they would die while attempting the impossible, or they would slowly wither in their cells until flesh gave way to bone and memory itself forgot their names.
No family visits were permitted.
