The tunnels stayed dark and heavy for long, with the torches burning low against wet walls and the ground full of lumps from piles of broken rock.
Small bone pieces can be seen lay mixed in from old falls, the kind of thing no one talked about.
Steps clattered down into this dark space, the line of boys crowding close together at the bottom of the steps where the air suddenly felt much colder.
Chains rattled as boots hit the flat stone, and their breath turned into faint fog right away, disappearing into the gloom just above their heads.
The torches along the wall cast shaky light, not bright enough to fully clear the corners and leaving the edges of the room swallowed by nothing but a shadow.
The ground ahead was even more uneven, scattered with loose chunks of rock and the kind of hidden bumps that could catch a bare foot if you weren't paying attention.
Then, a boy that looked about his age took a few places in front of him and was looking either down at his own feet or up at the guard, eyes wide open and nervous.
He did not see the jagged piece of stone sticking up until his foot landed squarely on the edge, the uneven rock half buried in the dust, its sharp lip hidden under a thin layer of grime and shadow.
His sole hit it at an awkward angle, the stone catching just under the ball of his foot and twisting it sideways before he could react.
There was not even time to catch his balance, just a sudden, sickening movement as his ankle rolled, and his whole body tipped forward all at once.
The chain around his neck rattled once more before he crashed into the stone, his hands scraping and scraping as he tried to brace himself.
Pickaxe flew from his grip, clanging once against the wall before dropping to the floor with a heavy thud.
The line behind him flinched, the chains jerking slightly as backs straightened and shoulders hunched.
Just from this small moment, everyone reacted without thinking.
Some boys stepped back instinctively, putting a little more space between themselves and the boy on the ground, as if the whip could reach them too just by being close.
Their eyes flicked down, then away, guilty but quick, already knowing what came next.
Others barely shifted at all as their postures stiff and practiced and eyes fixed straight ahead like they'd already seen this too many times before and had learned not to react, not to watch, not to give the guard any reason, real or imagined, to turn in their direction.
"Clumsy idiot!" a guard barked, stepping forward fast.
The vine whip snapped down once, twice, across the boy's back.
The blows were sharp and wet‑sounding, like meat hitting a slab.
The boy curled in on himself, face pressed into the dust, elbows instinctively drawn up, hands up too late to block anything.
A thin line of blood appeared where the whip had split through the rough cloth, darkening the fabric around the edge.
The guard laughed, low and rough, shaking his head. "Should've watched your feet, little worm! HAHAHAHA!"
"One step wrong and the rock bites you back," another guard added, his voice dry and flat, almost bored. He gave the boy's side a quick, sharp kick, and hard enough to make him flinch and stumble forward, hands scrabbling on the floor for balance, but not hard enough to knock him out completely.
"Get up," he snapped. "Move. Or I'll kill all of you."
From where he stood in the line, his breath caught in his throat as the scene unfolded in front of him, but it did not feel like it was happening to him.
The boy on the ground, the guard's boot, the whip raised and swinging—it all moved too slowly, too smooth, like something he had seen before in a dream he could not quite remember.
His shoulders stiffened, his fingers flexed at his sides, then went still, perhaps his body did not know how it was supposed to respond.
The air around his mouth came out thin and shallow; the way it does when the world blurs at the edges and your body agrees to stay still even when your mind should be shouting.
'He' tried blinking slowly, eyes fixed on the smear of blood on the stone, the faint crack where the boy's fingers had scraped, but that moment did not feel like it belonged to him.
"Weird…"
'He' did not feel the horror 'he' should.
'He' did not feel the anger rise hot and tight in his chest.
"..."
The whip cracked and the boy flinched once more.
The guard laughed, but the sounds bounced off the inside of his skull instead of sinking in.
**
A broad-shouldered overseer blocked the main work face ahead of them.
His massive gut straining against the thick leather straps cinched around his waist like they might snap at any moment.
Sweat beaded on his hard-planed face, shadowed deeply under the rough hood of his oil-stained cloak, and a thick, unkempt beard framed his jaw, streaked with grime and flecked with bits of chewing tobacco.
His eyes glinted with the cold focus for a man who'd long ago traded mercy for his own benefit.
From his belt dangled a vine whip—twisted lengths of dried, thorned creeper soaked in sap that glowed faintly green in the torch-gloom, pulsing like a living vein beneath a brutal tool.
The workers shuffled to a halt, their pickaxes and shovels scraping against the damp stone floor.
The air thick has become with the metallic tang of ore dust and the sour reek of unwashed bodies packed too close.
"Alright, you lot, line up right here in a straight row!"
There wasn't a shred of kindness in the overseer's gravelly voice when he barked his orders.
"You're breaking the east side wall down completely today, every last chunk of it, you hear me?!
And if I see anybody slacking or moving slowly, it's the vine for you every damn time."
The overseer jabbed the glowing tip of his vine whip toward the assigned rock faces.
One by one, the thorns scraped audibly against the damp stone as he swung it left to the jagged crop where water seeped in slowly, pooling into muddy puddles that turned the floor treacherous.
"You—left face there, that wet iguana; hack it out before it collapses on you," he growled, his gravelly voice cutting through the distant clink of picks from other tunnels.
He jabbed right next to the crumbling seam veined with glittering quartz that seemed to possess an ore but hid hairline fractures ready to shear.
"The right side's yours; clear every damn ledge or I'll bury the shift you alive."
Finally, he pointed center, to the broadest wall where torchlight flickered weakly against soot-blackened stone, shadows dancing like warnings.
"Center wall! you worthless bitches," the overseer snarled, cracking the vine whip against the stone floor for emphasis, the thorns spitting faint green sparks,
"I don't give a fuck whether you all damn die, if I hear you all slacking again, know that I'm here"
The boys shuffled into position without a single protest, their movements heavy and mechanical.
A stocky one, named Jiro, with a scarred knuckle from a slipped pickaxe last month sidled left to the wet seam.
His broad back hunched against the drip-drip of ceiling seepage; he shot a resentful glance at the overseer's retreating bulk with a lips curling in silent fury before dropping his gaze to avoid their notice.
Beside him, a wiry kid no older than sixteen edged right toward the quartz vein, doubled over with a hacking cough from lungfuls of suspended dust.
Was his name goes along with James or something?
**
Once again, he hefted the pickaxe from the junk pile from the side with a grunt.
The splintered handle biting into his palms even through the frayed rags wrapped around it for some semblance of grip.
The heavy iron head dragged behind him across the uneven stone floor.
Its grating screech echoing off the tunnel walls like nails raked across slate, a sound that set his teeth on edge and blended into the mine's ceaseless companion of misery.
Each slow step stirred up puffs of gray dust.
It danced in the torchlight and stuck to his wet tunic in a rough paste that itched bad and got into every fold.
The cloth sagged heavy and soaked now, rubbing sore spots on his shoulders and under his arms where his homemade belt straps ground without stop.
As he reached his assigned stretch of wall, pocked with fissures and streaked with mineral veins.
He tried to gripped the pickaxe tight and swung it experimentally toward the hard stone, testing its awkward balance,
But before he knew it, he lost his balance completely.
His feet shot out from under him on the slick grit, the loose shale betraying him with a sudden skid that no amount of desperate scrabbling could halt.
He came crashing down hard as his knees smacked the stone first with a jolt that buckled his legs and snapped his chin forward into the dirt.
The pickaxe clattered free from numb fingers, its iron head bouncing once with a dull clang before skidding away into the shadows, trailing sparks off the floor.
Pain throbbed sharp in his elbows from the awkward twist, accompanied by a hot spike that radiated up to his shoulders and left him gasping.
He sucked in a ragged breath but couldn't as the air thick with dust that coated his throat like ash.
Dirt filled his mouth, gritty and bitter forcing him to spit the food did nothing to clear it.
Fortunately, he got up quickly despite the fire in his limbs and hands shaking bad as he scrambled forward on all fours.
He grabbed the pickaxe handle at last, fingers slipping twice on the mix of sweat and dust before they locked around the splintered wood.
At heart, he fought to plant his feet firmly on the slick mess and one boot finally wedged against a fist-sized rock for leverage while the other slid half an inch, threatening another tumble.
'Shit, don't drop it again…' he thought, panic clawing at his gut.
His chest tightened like iron bands squeezing slow, making each breath a short, hot rasp that barely filled his lungs.
Sweat poured into his eyes now, burning like salt rubbed in open cuts, forcing him to blink fast against the sting.
Vision blurred for a second, the world smearing into torchlit haze.
The wall loomed much closer like it was mocking his pain.