The echo of pickaxes resonated throughout the mine—a constant melody of toil and suffering that never seemed to cease. Slaves struck the rock relentlessly, extracting iron and other minerals in a region where life seemed to have come to a halt. Shadows stretched along the dry, dark walls, cast by the few torches that lit the tunnels. The air, heavy and dense, was laden with volcanic ash seeping in from the surface, mingling with the sweat and despair of the men and women working underground.
This part of Vulkarion, where the mine was located, was an unforgiving place. Black mountains and rivers of lava crisscrossed the landscape, giving it an infernal appearance. The sky was shrouded in a reddish haze that erased any distinction between day and night, leaving the world in perpetual twilight where time seemed to stand still. The terrain was rough, filled with sharp rocks and dust that made it impossible to breathe without feeling a burning in your throat. There was no vegetation, no running water—only the incessant flow of lava marking the veins of that cursed land. The heat was suffocating, both inside and outside the mine, but somehow, within the tunnels, the oppression felt even more intense, as if the very environment sought to squeeze the life out of those who dared to inhabit it.
For Aldric, each swing of his pickaxe against the rock was like an endless repetition of his life trapped in that place. He had learned to survive in this monotonous cycle, and any change was rare.
The only one who broke the routine of silence was Joren, a young slave with tousled hair and ever-alert eyes. Joren had started working alongside Aldric a few weeks ago, and from day one, he hadn't stopped talking. He always found something to say—some absurd theory or comment about the work or the outside world—as if his mind could never rest. Unlike the other slaves, who preferred silence, Joren talked as if his words were a way to stay alive.
"Have you ever thought about the iron carts we haul out of here?" Joren remarked without missing a beat in his work. "They say they send it all to the Vulkarion army's forges. Wouldn't surprise me if the iron we extract becomes the swords they'll use to keep us here for the rest of our lives. Can you imagine? Helping to make weapons they'll use against us... what an irony, right?"
Aldric didn't respond. He knew Joren didn't need an answer to keep talking. He had learned to ignore his chatter, letting his words blend with the sound of pickaxes striking rock. But occasionally, he couldn't help but notice that Joren was right about some things. The irony of being slaves forging the tools of their own oppression didn't escape anyone.
Time in the mine was treacherous. Days, weeks, maybe months passed, but everything faded into the monotony of endless work. Some slaves fell ill, consumed by exhaustion and the harsh conditions, while others simply collapsed—their bodies unable to endure more, succumbing in the silence of the mine. The feeling of lost time was palpable. Sometimes, in those brief moments of rest, Aldric wondered how many years had passed since his arrival. He didn't know for sure and had almost stopped caring. The days melded into the shadows of the mine.
But then, the routine was broken.
A new slave was brought to the mine. Unlike others, the Overseer was more attentive to this arrival. It was common for new slaves to be assigned, but the Overseer usually treated them all the same: harshly and without consideration. However, with this newcomer, something felt different. The Overseer's eyes followed every move of the new slave with unusual intensity. There were no immediate punishments or shouts, but Aldric didn't overlook how the Overseer stayed close, watching every mistake he made.
The newcomer, a man of average build with a gaze that revealed his inexperience, was assigned to one of the veteran slaves to learn the tasks. He appeared clumsy at first, with hesitant movements as he tried to handle the tools and load the iron. Aldric observed him from the corner of his eye, not too interested at first, but something about his behavior intrigued him.
The man was a disaster at work. He stumbled with the tools, loaded the carts improperly, and made basic mistakes that earned him more than a few disapproving looks. But what caught Aldric's attention wasn't his clumsiness—it was the way he seemed to move among the other slaves. Though he tried to keep a low profile, Aldric noticed how his eyes darted around, as if he were observing more than he let on. There was a restlessness in his movements, a kind of agitation not typical of someone newly arrived.
"That one won't last a week" Joren commented with a grin. "Look at how he moves, like he's never held a pickaxe in his life. I'll bet anything the Overseer tears him apart before the month's over."
Aldric nodded automatically, though he wasn't sure about Joren's words. The Overseer was more vigilant than usual, but he hadn't been as hard on the newcomer as he had been with others. That difference seemed strange. The Overseer wasn't known for his patience, but there was something about this man that seemed to spark special interest.
The newcomer continued his work, and as days passed, his clumsiness began to fade, though the agitation in his behavior remained. Aldric noticed it more during rest periods, when the man seemed to examine every corner of the mine discreetly. Not overtly enough to raise immediate suspicion, but obvious enough for someone like Aldric, who knew how to read the signs of someone hiding something.
One day, while the slaves rested—their weakened bodies showing the toll of the mine, with some coughing laboriously—the newcomer passed near Aldric. He said nothing, but for a brief moment, their gazes met. It was a fleeting encounter, without words, but the way their eyes locked left an odd feeling in Aldric. There was no threat in his gaze, but neither was there mere curiosity. It was an assessment, as if he were measuring something in him, though nothing was revealed.
Aldric maintained his impassive expression, but his mind began to work faster. Who was this man? Why did the Overseer seem so watchful of him? And above all, why that constant restlessness that seemed to emanate from his every movemen