The day stretched on with endless, heavy work that never changed. Velrith moved like a machine built only for lifting and pulling, her shackled body pushing through every ache and pain. She bent down to grab jagged pieces of ore from the ground, the sharp edges cutting into her palms even through the calluses starting to form. Each piece was rough and heavy, covered in red mineral dust that stuck to her sweaty skin. She lifted it with both hands, chains on her wrists clinking together, and placed it onto the wooden cart waiting nearby. The cart was old and worn, its planks splintered in places, wheels creaking under the growing weight. Once full, she looped a thick rope over her shoulder and pulled the cart forward across the uneven stone floor. The rope dug into her skin, leaving red marks that burned with every step. Her ribs throbbed constantly from the old bruises, a dull pain that spread with each breath. The iron bands around her ankles had rubbed the skin raw, and small trickles of blood dried into rust-colored streaks down her legs. Sweat ran into her eyes, making them sting, but she blinked it away and kept moving.
This pain was useful in its own way. It kept her mind sharp and focused on the present moment, blocking out any thoughts of the life Joseph once had. The cold will of Velrith took full control, watching everything around her with careful attention. She noted where each overseer stood, how close other slaves worked, and any small changes in the cavern air or sounds. The section of the mine they labored in was dedicated to breaking raw ore away from the surrounding rock. Walls rose high on all sides, rough and marked with pick strikes from years of digging. The air hung thick with fine dust that got into lungs and made breathing feel like swallowing sand. A faint metallic smell mixed with the sharp tang of iron from the ore, and underneath it all was the constant odor of fear from the slaves—sweat and unwashed bodies packed too close. Light came from scattered torches placed in iron holders on the walls. The flames burned smoky, sending up black trails that danced in the draft from hidden vents. Shadows stretched long and dark across the floor, shifting whenever someone moved and making the space feel larger and more dangerous.
Slaves worked in small groups, each assigned to a cart or a pile of rock. Conversations were short and quiet, only when overseers walked farther away. One male slave, with short horn stubs and a limp from an old injury, whispered to another pulling the same cart. "Keep the load even, or the wheel sticks," he said in a low voice, wiping sweat from his brow with a chained hand. The other nodded, adjusting a large chunk of ore to balance the weight. Their faces stayed blank, eyes down, showing respect for the guards who could punish any sign of laziness. Overseers patrolled the area in heavy leather armor reinforced with metal spikes on shoulders and knees. They carried truncheons—thick clubs made from hard wood wrapped in iron—at their sides, ready to swing. The most powerful among them, a captain with extra chains of rank dangling from his belt, barked orders that echoed off the walls. Slaves jumped to obey, pulling faster or lifting higher, knowing delay meant the crack of a weapon on skin.
Midway through the afternoon, when muscles burned from constant use and throats begged for water that would not come until evening, a familiar sound stopped without warning. The rhythmic dragging of carts and the scrape of ore on stone had filled the cavern for hours. Now, silence fell heavy and sudden. Every slave in the area—about two dozen tired figures spread across the floor—froze in place. Hands dropped from rocks, feet stopped mid-step. Velrith held a large piece of ore against her chest, its weight pressing into her sore arms. She kept her head down, eyes fixed on a small crack in the floor just ahead, but she saw everything from the corners of her vision. Silence like this always meant trouble, a sign that something bad was about to happen.
The elderly demon pulling the cart in front of Velrith's group had been moving slower all day. He was a male with skin faded to grey from age, his horns broken down to smooth nubs from decades of rubbing against chains and walls. His back bent forward under the rope, steps small and careful to avoid falling. He did not make a dramatic collapse. His knees simply gave out while he pulled, body folding forward without a sound. The cart lurched ahead from the sudden release, wheels rolling a short distance before stopping. The elderly demon hit the floor face-first with a soft thud, dust puffing up around his head. His arms lay limp at his sides, chains pooled beside him. He did not twitch or breathe.
The overseer watching their section, a tall demon in dark leather with spikes glinting in the torchlight, halted his patrol. He stood still for a long moment, staring at the body with no expression. His face, partially hidden by a metal helm, showed nothing—no surprise, no anger, just cold waiting. Other slaves stayed frozen, bodies tense, waiting for what came next. The overseer walked over slowly, boots scraping loud on the stone in the quiet. He reached the body and nudged it with the toe of his boot, rolling it onto its back. The elderly demon's face was pale and dusty, eyes wide open staring up at the ceiling. No blood, no wound—just a body that had finally given out after too many years of hard use.
Two other guards nearby broke the silence with sudden, high-pitched laughter. It was not warm or kind; it was sharp and mean, a sound that mocked the dead slave's weakness. One guard slapped his knee with a gloved hand, the smack echoing. "Look at that—worn out like old rope," he said in the demon tongue, voice grating. The other nodded, chuckling low. "Pit food now." Their amusement spread a chill through the slaves, a reminder that life here meant nothing to those in power.
The main overseer ignored the laughter. He grabbed the corpse by one broken horn and a chained ankle, lifting it with strong arms. Dragging started right away, the body scraping over the rough floor. Skin tore on sharp stones, leaving wet marks. A dark trail formed behind—thick blood mixed with fluid from the body breaking down inside. It streaked the grey floor in a long line, shiny and fresh at first. The overseer pulled without hurry, disappearing around a corner into a side tunnel. The laughter from the guards faded to low, working chuckles as they watched the trail.
Then the order came. The overseer who stayed pointed his truncheon at the blood trail, then swept it toward the slaves. He shouted one short word in demon language, voice booming. Velrith did not know the word, but the meaning was clear from the gesture and the way he jabbed the club down. Lick it clean. Slaves were to remove every trace with their tongues.
Revulsion hit Velrith hard, a wave that made her stomach twist. Her heart pounded against her ribs, hands clenching the ore piece until edges cut deeper. This was worse than pain—it was forcing them to eat the remains of their own, stripping away any last bit of respect for the dead or themselves. But the other slaves moved without hesitation. They shuffled forward in a line, dropping to knees on the hard stone. One by one, heads lowered, tongues came out to lap at the trail. The sounds were wet and soft, slurping mixed with the scrape of chains. An elderly female near Velrith went first in her group, her face twisted in shame but eyes empty. She bent low, tongue touching the blood, body shaking slightly.
Conflicts happened away from Velrith too. In another group across the cavern, a younger male slave hesitated longer than the others. His hands trembled as he knelt, face pale. The overseer there noticed and stepped close, raising the truncheon high. "Now," he growled. The slave lowered his head fast, licking quickly to avoid the blow. The guard grunted approval, moving on. Power was shown and respected—slaves obeyed, guards commanded.
Velrith stood still at first, mind raging against the act. Joseph's human side screamed refusal; he would rather die than do this. Hate boiled inside, directed at the guards, the system, everything in Kravesh. But Velrith's logic cut through: she was weak, needed strength, could not afford to fight yet. Death now meant nothing gained. With a deep internal break, she dropped to her knees. Chains rattled on stone. She leaned forward, smelling the iron blood and dust close up. Eyes closed tight, tongue extended to touch the trail. The taste was warm metal, salty and gritty with stone particles. It coated her mouth, sickening and raw. She pulled back after one quick lick, the minimum to show obedience.
The overseer watched her, face indifferent under the helm. He grunted once, satisfied, and turned away. The trail grew cleaner as slaves worked along it, section by section. When done, they stood slowly, wiping mouths on arms or rags if they had them. Faces showed nothing—no anger, no tears—just blank acceptance.
Work resumed with pushes from the guards. Carts filled again, ropes pulled. As Velrith's group moved past the corner where the body went, sounds drifted back. A wide circular pit sat outside the main cavern, used for waste and bodies. Heavy metal grate covered it, rusted from damp air. The two laughing guards opened the grate with a loud scrape, hinges working stiffly. Screams erupted immediately—high and frantic from carrion beasts below. The creatures were large, dog-like with sharp teeth and tough hides, kept hungry for this purpose. Wet crunches followed as jaws tore into flesh, bones snapping loud.
The overseer swung the corpse over the edge. It fell with a wet thwack onto the pit floor. Eating started right away, beasts fighting over pieces with growls and snaps. Sounds echoed up: ripping tissue, crunching bone, satisfied grunts. Slaves heard it all as they passed, heads down, pulling carts heavier now with the weight of what they witnessed.
The horror built too much inside Velrith. The collapse, the laughter, the licking, the feeding sounds—it overloaded everything. Her stomach, weak from little food and earlier bile, rebelled hard. A tremor ran through her body, muscles clenching. She dropped the rope, hand clamping over her mouth. But the heaves came strong, throat burning as contractions forced up nothing but air at first. Then yellow acid bile surged out, spilling between fingers onto the floor. It burned raw paths down her throat and chin, splattering in a small puddle. Her ribs screamed with each heave, eyes watering from the effort. Knees buckled, and she fell forward, catching herself on chained hands. The bile pooled yellow and foul, a weak contrast to the dark blood trail now gone.
Guards glanced but did nothing. One chuckled low, used to new slaves reacting this way. "Fresh meat always spills," he said to the other, who nodded without stopping patrol. Vomiting was common, ignored unless it slowed work.
Velrith knelt in her mess, body shaking, covered in sweat and bile. The day had taken everything: seen death up close, tasted a comrade's end, heard the beasts devour. Joseph's memories faded under the weight of pure suffering. This was Kravesh's lesson—weakness led to use, even in death. She wiped her mouth with a trembling arm, stood when pushed by a guard's boot. Cart rope looped over shoulder again. Work continued, but inside, Velrith grew colder, plans forming in the pain. Survival meant enduring now, striking later. The powerful ruled; she would join them or end them.
The cavern noises picked up—heavy drags, ore clatters, guard commands. Torches flickered lower as day wore toward night. Slaves pulled on, chains marking every step. In the world below, built on ore and blood, Velrith learned the cost of weakness firsthand. Her first death witnessed marked the full break from the past. Only forward now, through the dust and dark.