Was this his fate now? A miner? It seemed wrong. Nightfell was not known for mining. That was the thing of Clan Valor, far from this place—closer to home. Closer to when things still held reasons.
Yet even here, there was a limit. In the distance, he saw the far wall—jagged, crude, pocked with round voids that led into further darkness. Ladders crawled from some. Others yawned open without aid, tempting fall or flight. Soft blue gems—froststones—lined the entrances.
But they were too few, their light too faint. This place would not be cooled. Not for long. When his own stone lost its will, the heat would take him.
Burning would be preferable, he thought. Clean.
The flow of the cave had its own rhythm: slaves moved in somber procession, guards flanked them with silent threat. Gresendent Sisters cut through the flow like blades, escorting the newest slaves to whatever was deep in.
He envied the slaves.
Above them all, servs drifted—those emotion-scrying orbs. Dim lights hovered, translating the despair into color. Blue for sadness. Black for hopelessness. Their presence was a quiet confirmation of what Merrin already knew: this was ruin.
A caravan emerged—slaves with hollowed eyes, dragged like things, not men, toward one of the wall's gaping mouths. Guards followed, yet not the same as the others. These ones radiated pressure. Merrin could not name the difference, but his mind registered it.
But contemplation had no place here. Again came the blow, this one aimed squarely at his spine, flinging him into stone. The severity of heat was immediate. His hands, unguarded, met the scorching rock. He yelped, the sound escaping before he could cease it.
There were ranks here. That was certain. The same as with casters. Lowlanders. Perhaps excubitors.
When he turned, it was not to see a face—but his own. Reflected in the glass of a helm. Distorted. pale.
"Move," the voice said. It was not cruel. No reason for it.
Merrin nearly dropped into a combat stance. Instinct. Memory. But he caught himself, rose, and walked. Toward what, he could not say nor know.
One of the excubitors moved ahead, assuming the position of lead. A path formed among the gathering eyes—watchful, lifeless. They studied the newcomers the way one appraises meat. Maybe they were.
Slaughter would be a kindness, Merrin thought, his breath bitter with the notion.
He walked, tripping on shallow holes in the ground. Each misstep, a burning sting. Still, something in the pattern of stone reminded him of home—of the Ash Mountains, before they became memory.
Eventually, they arrived.
A spiraling pit. Its rim jagged, torn from repeated use. A scar upon the land. Lamps hung along its edge. They did not reach the bottom, though. Nothing did.
He stared down. Depth had shape here. It resembled a throat, swallowing. A living eventuality.
What would it mean, he wondered, to surrender to that fall?
"ASSEMBLE!"
The command broke his trance. Merrin scurried to join the others—those the same. He stood among them, peering through the bodies. The excubitor loomed atop a platform of highstone.
"Slaves," the guardsman said. The voice, stern, void of warmth, echoed across stone. "You will be divided into two groups: scrapers and miners. You are designated Miners 7. This pit is yours."
The statement bore the weight of repeated events. Likely, the Excubitor had said this more till it became reflex.
"Every day, you will mine to gather Oredite, Eltium, and Iron. Each metal is awarded a number of cell marks based on amount or weight." He raised both hands. Dark cloth covered them, but what he held was distinct—a small, crude disc of metal, coarse and unfinished. And yet, at its center, a white glow pulsed like with current.
"Oredite: ten marks. Iron: five. Eltium: twenty."A breath passed between words, calculated and cold."The size and amount of the metal is weighed, then the marks are given accordingly. For your measure: a fist-sized amount equals the standard yield."
Mists. Would anyone be able to live?
A second guardsman brought forth an object—rusted, black, and ringing in sound. A bell. The clang it made split the air like a scream. And the first guardsman accepted it without hesitation.
"Another thing." The words came slower now. "You may—by fortune—be drafted into the Nightsailers. If you are, count yourself among the lucky."
A pause. Then, amusement.Or perhaps not."Those who feel the heat are scrapers. Step forward."
He rang the bell again.
Merrin listened. Something in the name—Nightsailers—stirred an awareness. But no hope came with it. The way the guardsman spoke the word hinted at rank, at purpose. But Merrin felt none of that in himself. There was only the hollow.
And then—
Heat? The word echoed. Realization came too slowly. The brand on his skin warmed. Burning.
He yelped.
His arm blazed. Not flame, but heat. Crawling, sneering pain gripped him in layers. He clenched his jaw. A fist. A breath. Control. Control. An Ashman knew the heat. Control control.
Others did not. Some collapsed and paid for it swiftly. Their backs burning. Still, the pain persisted. Like fire in the veins. Like heat in the bones. And somehow, through it, he remained upright.
A helm turned. Featureless. Queer."Come."
The word was not an invitation. It was a decree. Undefiable. They obeyed. He obeyed. Slaves moved through the corridor between armored men. Some were pale, others shivering. They stood now before the Excubitor, awaiting what next to be said.
The guardsman dropped from the highstone. Motion deliberate. He Pointed, chains lay scattered on the floor like sloughed things.
"Strap yourselves," he said. "Take up a pickaxe. Scrape the walls."
He offered nothing more. Law. No indulgence. No further explanation.
"Some Eltium or Oredite may remain embedded in the pit walls. Mine it. Hand it to your mine captain. As for who that is—you are generously given the right to choose."
A silence fell. Choice? That was an illusion of it.
The guardsman stepped toward Merrin."Would a problem arise from compliance?"
Merrin trembled. A shiver through bone. He realized then the act unknowingly attributed to him. Defiler! He shook his head, but that didn't seem to convince the Excubitor. His gaze remained, prying for something.
Merrin passed a glance, and approached the chains. Reaching in, they rattled in response, not loudly, but just enough to resound his presented action. Though against the resonance of the cave, their defiance became whisper.
He strapped himself in. Chains wrapped around the waist—imprecise, clumsy. He had no knowledge of how it ought to be done.
But the thought lingered—he would fall. A destined eventuality. And in that thought, there was some peace.
Perhaps he should jump.
Unluckily…
The chains clanged into place. A rusted padlock clicked shut at Merrin's waist—strong. He drew breath with tight lips. Emotions warring within. A cognitive resistance. He bent forward and picked up a pickaxe.
The tool had a froststone core, the center glowing with a frosty blue hue. Dim, yes, but it washed that cast across his hand. Cobalt in its radiance.
Warm. Not scalding. Still better, perhaps—however small—for something that had been buried in the land's crust. The Earth's heat could melt it with enough time. Everyone knew this. The stone needed to be bigger. He thought.
The others watched.
Scrapers like him. Their eyes were wide, silent, scorn-filled. Not hate, more contempt. Merrin felt the particular condition brought a difference to those words. A variance to the normal perceptivity. They saw foolishness. Or martyrdom. Or both. They had not been chosen. He had. Though by himself.
Was it a mistake?
The chains were old, rusted. Untrustworthy by the certainty of rupture they provided. But someone always had to ride first. Him, that person it seemed.
What importance does my life have, right? A **bitter smile came, crooked—useless, like he was.
Ashless thing.
He slid the pickaxe between the chains around his waist. It rested there like a choice. He had that once. Now however, no longer. There was an assuredness of death in what he now did. Horrible credence.
Then he walked to the chasm's lip and stared into it.
A vast hole, carved elliptically, its rim worn smooth by time or by volition. Caster choice. The stone edge spiraled downward, layer by layer, like the rings made by a white gopher. Though Merrin sensed those creatures were scarce below the mountains.
Lamps—scarce, hung along the wall, washing faint light in erratic fades. It buzzed aloud. A maddening sound. Yet, darkness waited patiently. A dangerous thing in all entirety. He saw this and trembled.
Five heartbeats.
Merrin remained. Fear rooted him as force gripping hard over his legs. It warred against himself. Just jump, he told them.
They did not.
He glanced down at the chain trailing from his body, disappearing into the dim blackness. It did not look strong. Not remotely. And wasn't that the point? Wasn't death the desired outcome?
A minute passed.
Clicks of the tongue. Sighs. Scornful breath. Slaves, it seemed, had a repulsion to craveness. They hated cowardice, and Merrin heard this aloud in the words chosen by them.