The chain that bound me rattled with a sharp snap, the sound slicing through the stale air like a blade. For a moment, it seemed as if the entire chamber had drawn a collective breath. I could feel the weight of dozens of hollow stares, their owners perched on the brink of despair, watching me with an almost desperate curiosity.
My arm hung in the air, still extended from the force I'd used to break free. The sensation was strange—liberating, but hollow. The shackles were gone, but I was still a prisoner.
The noise had drawn attention. Of course, it had.
"What the hell is going on here?"
The voice came from the entrance, sharp and drenched in irritation. I turned, slowly, to face the overseer. He was a wiry man with a thin face and the kind of scowl that looked permanent, like it had been carved there. His hand hovered over the whip at his belt, fingers twitching. His eyes darted from the shattered chain to me, narrowing in suspicion.
"You think you can just destroy property?" he snarled, stepping forward. "What's wrong with you, slave?"
I didn't answer immediately, the question almost laughable. Everything was wrong with me. Where did I even start? But the moment wasn't for introspection—it was for survival. My legs felt like jelly from whatever force had surged through me moments ago, but I straightened my back as best I could, meeting his gaze with something resembling defiance.
"I don't take orders from you," I muttered. The words were shaky, not exactly the bold declaration I'd hoped for, but they were enough to make his lip curl.
"Oh, you don't, do you?" His hand moved faster than I'd expected, drawing the whip from his belt in a fluid motion. The crack of leather against stone echoed before I could react.
The first strike landed across my back, the pain exploding like a white-hot fire. I stumbled forward, catching myself before I could fall. Another lash came, and this time, I bit down hard on my lip, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
The overseer was relentless, each blow heavier than the last. My mind screamed at me to collapse, to feign submission, but my body refused. Every muscle in me tensed, my legs trembling but holding firm. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me broken.
"You think you're special?" he spat between strikes, his voice venomous. "You're nothing but a worm like the rest of them. Know your place."
The words stung, but not in the way he intended. They weren't insults to me—they were fuel. Each syllable, each lash, stoked the fire inside me. By the time he finished, his breathing heavy, the pain radiating through my body had dulled to a throbbing ache. I was still standing, barely, but standing nonetheless.
He sneered one last time before turning on his heel. "Clean up this mess," he barked to no one in particular, stomping out of the chamber.
The silence that followed was deafening. I could feel the eyes of the other slaves boring into me, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. No one spoke, and for a moment, I wasn't sure if I'd made an impression or just marked myself as the next corpse in the pit.
Slowly, I straightened, wincing at the pain lancing through my back. My gaze drifted across the room until it landed on an older man sitting near the far wall. His face was lined with years of suffering, his eyes sunken but alert. He'd been watching me—watching how I'd endured.
"You," I said, my voice hoarse but steady. "What's your name?"
The man hesitated, his lips parting as if he were afraid to speak. Finally, he muttered, "Kalan."
I nodded, taking a step closer. The movement sent a fresh wave of agony through me, but I pushed it down. "Kalan," I said, keeping my tone even. "Tell me about this place. The mines, the overseers. Everything."
He looked around nervously, his eyes flitting to the others before settling back on me. "The mines," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, "are hell. Fifteen-hour shifts, six days a week. You fall behind, you get whipped. Too weak to work, they throw you into the pit."
"The pit?" I pressed, ignoring the shiver that ran down my spine.
His gaze darkened. "A hole in the ground. No food, no water. You don't come back."
I clenched my fists, the chains rattling faintly. This was more than just a prison—it was a graveyard.
"How many of us are here?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain calm.
Kalan hesitated. "Fifty, maybe sixty. But... most don't last long."
Fifty. A small number, but more than enough to work with. I needed them—needed their information, their loyalty. And if I played this right, I'd have it.
"Listen," I said, taking another step closer. "I'm not here to die in that pit. And if you follow me, I won't let you die there, either."
His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something—hope?—crossing his face. The others were listening now, their attention fixed on me.
"This place is a cage," I continued, my voice low but firm. "But every cage has a weak point. Tell me everything you know. The exits, the supplies, the guards. Anything."
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, before Kalan nodded. Slowly, hesitantly, the others began to murmur. Their words came in fragments at first—shifts, patrols, punishments—but soon the floodgates opened.
I listened, my mind racing. This was a prison. But it wouldn't hold me for long.