Six years later years that full of hardship and work where even adults have hard time to do.
The mountains of Northwatch did not have seasons. They had variations of grey.
In the Shadow Pits—a sprawling mining settlement clustered at the base of Ironhold Keep—morning didn't begin with the sun. It began with the clanging of the iron bell.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Aris opened his eyes before the third ring.
He always did.
At six years old, his body was small, malnourished, and covered in soot that never quite washed off. His ribs showed through his pale skin like the rungs of a ladder. But his eyes were different. They were too still, too focused for a child who slept on a bed of damp straw shared with fifty other serf brats.
Wake up. Assess. Survive.
The mental checklist was a habit from a life he could barely remember, like a dream fading in the daylight. The memories of the "Before" were blurry now—skyscrapers, cars, electricity—but the instincts remained. The drive to be strong. The refusal to break.
"Aris," a groggy voice mumbled beside him. "Is it the bell?"
Aris sat up and nudged the boy next to him. "It's the bell, Doran. Get up. If you're late, Overseer Grout will take your rations."
Doran groaned and rolled over.
He was large for his age, broad-shouldered and clumsy, with a mop of unruly brown hair.
He was the kind of soft-hearted kid who would have been a class clown in another world. Here, he was just a big target.
"I'm hungry," Doran whined, rubbing his eyes.
"We're all hungry," Aris said, his voice flat. He stood up, shaking the straw from his rags. "Hunger keeps you sharp. Move."
Around them, the barracks—a long, drafty wooden longhouse—was waking up.
Coughing fits echoed in the gloom.
Children ranging from five to twelve years old stumbled out of their nests, wrapping thin wool blankets tighter around their shoulders.
They were the children of the debt-bound, the criminals, and the conquered. Property of the Crown, fuel for the war machine's mines.
Aris led the way to the door, stepping over sleeping bodies with practiced precision. He didn't just walk; he moved with economy. Every step was calculated to conserve energy.
Outside, the air was biting. The wind howled down from the peaks, carrying the scent of
pine and smelting sulfur.
"Line up! Scum! Line up!"
Overseer Grout was waiting. He was a thick-necked man with a face scarred by pox and a soul rotted by petty power. He held a willow switch in one hand and a bucket of watery porridge in the other.
Aris fell into line, dragging Doran with him. A moment later, a small, blurred shape squeezed in between them.
"Made it," the girl whispered, breathless.
It was Mira. She was small, wiry, and fast. Her eyes were sharp, constantly darting around like a sparrow looking for crumbs.
She had a bruise on her cheek from a scuffle yesterday, but she was grinning. Mira always found a reason to grin, usually because she had stolen something.
"Cutting it close," Aris murmured, looking straight ahead.
"I found a warm spot near the vents," Mira whispered back, shivering. "Dreamt I was a princess eating a whole chicken."
"Quiet!" Grout roared, slapping the switch against his thigh. "Roll call!"
The ritual was tedious. Names were called. Grunts were given. If you weren't there, you didn't eat. If you talked, you didn't eat.
When it was Aris's turn, he stepped forward, accepted the wooden bowl of grey sludge, and stepped back. He didn't look Grout in the eye. Eye contact was a challenge.
Challenges got you beaten. He wasn't ready to fight yet.
He ate quickly, forcing the tasteless mush down. It wasn't food; it was fuel.
Protein deficiency, his adult mind analyzed coldly. Stunted growth markers. I need to find a way to supplement our diet or we'll never build muscle mass.
"Today," Grout announced, spitting on the frozen ground, "The lower tunnels need clearing. The run-off chutes are clogged. Small hands work best."
A collective groan went through the older kids, but Aris kept his face blank. The run-off chutes were narrow, dark, and freezing wet. They were also dangerous; kids got stuck, or crushed by shifting shifts.
"Doran, Aris, Mira, Lenn, Tova... you lot take Tunnel 4," Grout barked.
Aris felt Doran tense up beside him. Doran hated the dark.
"It's okay," Aris whispered, gripping the bigger boy's arm with a strength that surprised people. "I'll take point. You take the middle. Mira, watch the rear."
As they marched toward the black maw of the mine entrance, the immense stone walls of Ironhold Keep loomed above them, thousands of feet up the mountain. Flags snapped in the wind—black wolves on a grey field. The symbol of Northwatch.
Up there, knights feasted and planned wars. Down here, Aris picked up a basket twice the size of his head.
He looked at the heavy stones littering the tunnel entrance. To anyone else, this was slavery. To Aris, it was a gym.
Lift with the legs, he told himself, hoisting a rock that made his young tendons scream. Engage the core. Breathe.
"Aris?" Mira asked, watching him lift a rock that was clearly too heavy for him. "Why do you always pick the big ones? Grout isn't even watching."
Aris dropped the rock into the cart, sweat freezing on his brow. He looked at his hands—blistered, scarred, rough.
"Because," Aris said quietly, looking up at the distant castle. "One day, stones won't be the only thing I'm going to crush."
"You're weird, Aris," Doran said, though he picked up a slightly larger rock himself, mimicking his friend.
"I know," Aris said. "Come on. Let's get this done. If we finish early, I know where the cook throws out the potato peels."
The mention of extra food lit a fire in them. Together, the children descended into the dark, the small flame of Aris's determination lighting the way.