Eliam Svalthren woke up feeling the weight of a rock on his head. Not literally, but it was always there, like an invisible pressure. He took a deep breath and sat up on his tattered cloth bed, feeling the stiffness in his back after another night on the hard stone. The air was filled with the scent of dampness, metal, and stale sweat—the constant aroma of life in the depths.
His room was nothing more than a carved-out space in the rock, barely large enough to move comfortably. The ceiling was low, forcing him to hunch slightly when standing up. On the walls, rudimentary wooden shelves held a few personal belongings: a half-used oil lamp, a small handful of old books with worn pages, and, in one corner, a box containing documents and supervision tools. On an improvised table made of nailed planks rested several rolled-up parchments and an inkwell with a quill already dry from use.
He got dressed in thick, hardened fabric clothing, garments resistant to dirt and the constant friction against the rocks. He fastened his belt, where an old knife hung—not so much as a weapon but rather as a tool for cutting ropes or marking records on wooden tablets. Taking his notes tablet, he reviewed the previous day's reports. There were pending inspections, cargo movements, and the usual problems: clashes between groups, demands, pleas, and threats. More of the same.
Sighing, he left his room, venturing into the vast network of tunnels.
Eliam had been a tunnel supervisor for a little over a month; his captors had deemed him the most suitable for the position, so he had no choice but to start working. Although it was difficult at first to keep track of more than sixty people, he eventually adapted. There were a total of three supervisors, each assigned a specific zone. He was in charge of the left zone, where his clan was located. The Svalthren, along with the Thalmyr, dwelled there.
The caves were a labyrinth of stone and shadows, some wide, others narrow. The walls dripped moisture in certain spots, water seeping from the surface, leaving calcareous traces that shimmered under the torchlight. Every ten meters, a masked iron-clad guard stood watch.
The guards in the caverns were distributed across four different ranks. The ones standing guard were considered foot soldiers, responsible for surveillance and maintaining daily discipline.
Their masks were of a smooth design, devoid of facial features. Angular in shape and covering the entire face, they had only two narrow slits for the eyes. The surface was dull and non-reflective. The lower part of the mask extended in a slight curve, covering the jaw and neck down to the base, ensuring a firm fit. It was secured to the head with thick straps at the back, reinforced with metal buckles.
After some time, Eliam reached his destination—one of the three resting quarters for his people, the Svalthren. It was a space three times larger than his room, with straw mats scattered across the floor and a small fire pit in the center that barely kept the cold at bay. He knocked on the wall with the back of his knuckles.
Eliam leaned against the cold cave wall and crossed his arms, watching as the Svalthren gradually woke up. The torches flickered with a dim light, casting elongated shadows over the drowsy bodies that were only beginning to stir. Most slept on tattered blankets or makeshift straw beds, just enough to keep the cold at bay but never enough to make the place even remotely comfortable.
"Good morning; it's time to get up." He spoke with enthusiasm.
Murmurs of protest were quick to follow. Some grunts, heavy sighs, and vague groans echoed throughout the room.
"Good morning, Eliam, we're getting up," someone called out among the crowd.
With that, Eliam left them to prepare themselves. He knew he didn't have to worry about it. His people were tough, surviving the attacks of the Ram creatures, the destruction of their home, and now... this. They tried not to complain too much despite everything.
Once he finished waking up his people, he continued moving through the vast network of tunnels until he reached the section assigned to the Thalmyr. Here, the atmosphere was completely different.
"Come on, it's time to work," he said lazily.
The torches seemed to cast a colder light, or maybe it was the attitude of those who lived there that made it feel that way. When Eliam entered, the gazes that locked onto him were filled with hostility. There was an intense silence, heavy with resentment. The group was just as diverse in age, with children as young as eight sleeping among adults with hardened expressions. The Thalmyr were more troublesome, fierce, and proud. They hated every moment of their existence in this place.
It didn't take long for a confrontation to arise.
Eliam immediately recognized the man who stood up with heavy movements, his shadow swallowing part of the torchlight as he straightened up completely. It was Rhovan, a Thalmyr, who did not get along with Eliam. In the past, he had been one of the soldiers who stood alongside the former king of the Thalmyr, Elrik Thalmyr.
A rough scar crossed his forehead down to his cheek, giving him an even more hardened appearance than his physique already suggested. His gaze was full of restrained rage. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"Why the hell is it always a damn Svalthren telling us what to do?" His voice resonated through the cave with a venomous tone, every word dripping with resentment.
Eliam remained unfazed, standing firm. He had heard that complaint before—every day, in fact. And after what had happened between their clans, he understood it. But he had been just a child when all that took place and bore no guilt for it; besides, there were far more important things to worry about at the moment.
"I didn't make the rules," he replied with his usual indifference. "If you have any complaints, I can pass them along to one of the guards."
The response only fueled Rhovan's fury.
"It's a humiliation!" His voice rose in intensity, the tension in his shoulders becoming more evident. "After everything they did. Everything they did to us, and we have to follow you?"
He took slow, deliberate steps toward Eliam, as if expecting him to back away. Eliam did not. He knew that would only make the Thalmyr feel he had control over the situation.
The rest of the group watched with expectation. Some exchanged glances. Others nodded subtly, sharing Rhovan's resentment. It wasn't just him. All of them carried the same rage, the same accumulated frustration.
Rhovan clenched his fists even tighter, his muscles tensing under his toughened skin as if he were about to start a fight. And at that moment, a dark shadow slipped into the cave.
The murmurs of the crowd ceased instantly. Rhovan halted just a step away from Eliam, his body still tense, but his eyes drifting slightly toward the figure that had just entered.
Eliam didn't need to turn around to know who was behind him; Rhovan's pale face said it all.
One of the guards appeared next to Eliam. However, what caught him off guard was the fact that this one wore a black steel mask, clearly marking his second place in the enforcer hierarchy. He was tall and slender, his posture exuding a latent danger. He did not need to raise his voice or make an aggressive gesture to command respect; his mere presence was enough to silence any further comments.
The masked man wore a dark, heavy outfit made of hardened leather reinforced with metal plates covering his chest, shoulders, and forearms. His attire was designed for combat but without hindering his movement.
Over his torso, he wore a long, jet-black coat with embroidered edges. The coat reached down to mid-thigh and had multiple straps that kept it tightly fitted to his body.
His mask was made of burnished black steel, with an intimidating design and a carved mark in the center. The mask had no human features, only two slits for his eyes, completely obscuring his identity and giving him a spectral presence in the dim cave.
Those who wore black steel masks, like the one on the man before Eliam, were the enforcers—the ones who handled orders, transactions, and the elimination of "problems." They rarely visited the barracks unless there was something important to address.
At his waist he carried a short sword with an engraved hilt, a dagger on his right thigh, and a metallic cylinder on his belt—an artifact.
The gloves he wore were made of reinforced leather with thick stitching, designed to resist cuts and abrasions. His boots were high, reinforced at the front and back, ideal for combat in confined spaces.
The high-ranking guard advanced calmly, his black mask reflecting the torchlight with a dull gleam. The expressions of everyone had turned into a mixture of respect and fear.
"Is there a problem?" the masked man asked in a low tone.
Rhovan remained silent, staring at Eliam with a hint of fear. Eliam exhaled lightly.
"No, none." He replied calmly, without taking his eyes off Rhovan.
The masked man stayed silent for a few seconds, as if weighing the tension in the air. But finally, he turned to the rest of the group.
"Five minutes."
The order fell like a heavy weight on everyone. Rhovan, along with the others, began to move, some with poorly concealed displeasure but none daring to challenge what had been commanded.
The masked man gestured for Eliam to follow him. They walked in silence through the passageways, moving away from the others until they reached a more secluded cave.
Only when they were far enough away did the enforcer speak.
"There will be a slave shipment in a week. You need to prepare your people." He said before extending a parchment and handing him the device from his belt. "I know you're just starting, so I ask, do I need to explain how to use this?"
Eliam already knew this device; it was a signaling artifact that the masked men used to send a signal to nearby guards. The artifact was shaped like a dark metal cylinder, about fifteen centimeters long, with a thickness that fit comfortably in the palm of a hand. On its surface was a small handle, like those on a clock, and in the center was a dull blue gemstone. Once the handle was turned, the crystal emitted a brilliant light that temporarily blinded those nearby for a few seconds, just enough time for the guards to arrive at the location.
"I know how to use it." Eliam responded.
Satisfied with Eliam's answer, the enforcer let him take both items and left the area, leaving him to inspect the parchment.
Eliam unrolled the parchment with tense fingers, letting his eyes scan the neatly organized columns of names from both clans. Eliam was already familiar with this parchment thanks to his father; it contained the names of various individuals who were to be sold to wealthy buyers.
The first section was for manual labor; it listed the names of robust men and women Eliam already knew, selected for heavy labor in mines, cargo transportation, or construction projects on the surface. The demand for slaves for these jobs was constant, and although most of those listed had little affinity with Terum, their strong bodies were enough to secure them a place of utility, at least for a while.
Next was the combat section. In addition to young and adult men of athletic build, the list included children. The demand for children with potential was high, not only to train them as gladiators in private arenas but also to mold them from a young age into loyal bodyguards and obedient soldiers. Some even showed Terum affinity at an early age, increasing their value. Older men, even without Terum abilities, were required to guard properties or defend trade routes.
His eyes moved to the next section, the sacrifices.
This group mostly consisted of elderly individuals, those too weak or ill to perform any other tasks. Their fates were the most grim of all. From what he had heard from the masked men, some were used to enhance the abilities of others, forced to act as conduits in dark rituals that drained their life energy until they became mere husks. Others, even more unfortunate, were subjected to experiments designed to develop new applications of Terum, reduced to mere test subjects.
Finally, he reached the last section: pleasure.
Here, the range of ages was broader; both men and women were listed. Young adults, adolescents, and even children. The demand did not discriminate by gender. Eliam swallowed hard and looked away for a moment. He hated thinking about what would happen to them once they were sold.
However, when he looked back, his eyes landed on a particular name. Eliam recognized it—it belonged to a child from the Thalmyr clan. His blood boiled, and he clenched the parchment tightly.
Fucking animals, he thought.
As much as he despised this, the truth was that he could do nothing; supervisors had no say in the transactions carried out between high-ranking officers and buyers. Those who refused to perform their duties or attempted to change the system were executed and thrown off a cliff; this was the fate that had befallen Eliam's father and the other supervisors.
With no other choice, he tucked the parchment into his jacket and continued with his duties. But the anger never went away... The transaction would take place in three weeks.