The gallery widened before them, burrowing into the mountain’s guts like a poorly stitched wound. The air grew heavier with every step.

  Davorin walked ahead, the shackles on his ankles dragging behind him with a metallic rasp.

  Marc had been following him for days now, the chains of his own restraints biting into his flesh with each movement. But he had learned to lift them just enough to keep them from catching on the jagged rock. One misstep, and he would stumble. And the guards would strike.

  So he moved slowly, eyes locked on Davorin’s feet, mimicking the way he placed each step to avoid the uneven ground’s traps.

  They came to an abrupt halt at the mouth of a narrower side tunnel, where the torchlight barely reached. The slaves filed in pairs into separate passages without the guards needing to direct them.

  Davorin turned to Marc, his face half-lost in shadow.

  — We’re here, he said simply.

  — Where? Marc asked in a low voice, speaking Korp.

  Davorin jerked his chin toward the darkness of the tunnel.

  — Tunnels, he murmured, gesturing vaguely at the adjacent galleries. No one escapes the Pit. Because no one knows where to go. And even if they did…

  He tapped his Torq, the metal ringing faintly.

  — …there’s still this.

  Marc hesitated. But something in Davorin’s gaze—a glint he recognized, the look of a man who had seen too much to fear anything—made him pause.

  — You want to live? the old man murmured.

  Marc straightened slightly.

  — Yes.

  Davorin nodded, as if he had expected no other answer. Then he stepped into the tunnel, vanishing almost at once into the gloom.

  Marc followed him into the narrow passage, his shoulders scraping against the rough walls. His shackles clinked against the stone, the sound echoing in the silence like an alarm.

  He moved forward, bent double, the dragging chains a reminder with every step that he was not free.

  Davorin, however, seemed to ignore his own. He walked with the ease of long practice, his bare feet gliding over the rock as if he knew every uneven patch by heart.

  Marc wondered how many times he had taken this path.

  Gradually, shapes emerged—irregular walls, streaked with mineral veins that glowed faintly, like phosphorescent scars. The ground was uneven, littered with rock debris and fragments of metal, remnants of some ancient collapse.

  A few paces ahead, Davorin crouched, his fingers brushing the ground like a blind man reading Braille. He found what he was looking for—a flat piece of metal, no larger than his palm, its edges jagged and rusted.

  — Take it, he said, holding it out to Marc.

  Marc hesitated, then took it. The metal was cold, almost icy, despite the ambient heat. Geometric patterns were etched into its surface—angular lines, like poorly drawn runes by a trembling hand.

  — What is it?

  — A Sol. Iron.

  He turned it between his fingers, and the dim light glinted off its octagonal edges. See the eight sides? Eight like the directions of the stellar wind. He pointed at the engravings. There—that’s the symbol of Ka-Rosh. The crowned anvil. Means this coin comes from here. Other cities have different marks. Vor-Krath’s is a broken hammer. Sek-Thal’s is a flaming sword.

  — For the guards. If you need it, Davorin added.

  Marc turned the metal piece in his hand, feeling its rough edges. He had seen coins like this before, during transactions between the guards and the yellow-robed men who sometimes came to inspect the Karsaks like livestock. But he had never held one. No one had ever given him one.

  It wasn’t much. Just a worn scrap of metal, barely enough to buy a moment’s respite. But it was the first time, since he had crashed on this cursed planet, that someone had given him something without asking for anything in return.

  — Why? he asked, his voice rough.

  Davorin shrugged, as if the question made no sense.

  He turned away, disappearing deeper into the tunnel.

  Marc stood still for a moment, the Sol clenched in his hand, listening to Davorin’s footsteps fade into the dark. Then he followed, the shackles on his ankles jingling softly with each step.

  The metal of the coin was cold, worn smooth by thousands of hands before his. Marc gripped it in his fist, feeling the octagonal edges bite into his palm. An iron Sol. Enough to buy a bowl of soup if the seller was generous. Not enough to buy freedom. Not enough to buy a knife—the one he’d been given at the Agora had been taken when they marked him.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Davorin had vanished into the tunnel’s shadow, his hunched silhouette swallowed by the darkness like a rat into its burrow. Marc stood motionless for a moment, listening to the distant rattle of chains, the muffled whispers of voices smothered by the stone walls. The Pit breathed around him, slow and dull, like a sleeping beast waiting for its time to wake.

  He slipped the coin into the waistband of his tattered tunic, where the fabric was still thick enough to hide it, then set off. The shackles on his ankles clinked, a sharp metallic sound that echoed in the narrow tunnel. Each step kicked up fine red dust that clung to his soles. He moved methodically. Ten paces to the first turn. Twenty to the descending ramp. Thirty to the guard post.

  The geometry of the Pit imprinted itself in his mind like a tactical map.

  Level 1.

  Here, the walls were smooth, worn down by centuries of chained hands, striped with marks left by tools or desperate fingernails. Cells lined either side of the corridor—low, dark openings, each housing two or three huddled figures. Some slept. Others watched him pass with hollow, indifferent eyes. One man, leaning against the wall, held a piece of ash-bread between his dirty fingers. He didn’t even look up as Marc passed.

  Eight guards on Level 1. Marc had spotted them the moment he arrived. Two per section, armed with spears, their Tulwars hanging from their belts. Tin-rank Vektors, young and nervous, striking harder than they needed to compensate for their low status. Their armor was dull, poorly maintained—a sign they weren’t here by choice, but as punishment.

  Recruits sent to rot in the depths before anyone decided if they deserved better.

  He noted their positions, their habits. The one near the third cell kept touching his Tulwar. A sign of impatience. A weak point.

  Another, farther down, leaned against the wall, half-asleep. Marc filed the information away.

  The descending ramp began—a sloped plane cut into the rock, worn smooth by the passage of ore carts. The air grew heavier, stinging his nostrils.

  Level 2.

  Here, the walls were less smooth, streaked with mineral veins that glowed faintly under the lamplight. Torches hung from the walls, their blue flames casting shifting indigo and violet shadows that danced like specters across the workers’ faces.

  Slaves bent over sorting tables, their hands blackened by mineral dust, their shoulders hunched under the weight of exhaustion. They separated blocks of Blood-Iron from waste, tossing the former into thick leather baskets, the latter into splintered wooden bins. Their Torqs gleamed dully in the torchlight, silent reminders of their condition.

  No one spoke. The only sounds were the scrape of tools on stone, the clink of chains, the ragged breaths of exhausted men.

  Marc approached an empty table, where a block of ore already waited. Raw Blood-Iron. The stone was warm, almost hot, as if it had absorbed the heat of the hands that had touched it before him. Veined with red and black, streaked with metallic filaments that shimmered under the bluish light. He lifted it, feeling its weight—heavier than it looked, dense, as if the metal itself resisted being moved.

  — Sort… size, Marc had understood from the foreman’s grunt as he was shoved toward the table. A man with a copper badge, his face weathered by years underground, his eyes rimmed with dust. — Big blocks… left… Small ones… right. Waste… middle. You understand?

  Marc had nodded. He understood these few words, thanks to Davorin.

  He got to work.

  The first block was the size of two fists, heavy, irregular. He placed it in the left basket, feeling the red dust stick to his fingers. The second was smaller, striped with thinner black veins. Right. The third was cracked, the break revealing a porous, worthless core. Middle.

  His fingers quickly adapted to the rhythm, sorting almost mechanically, as if they had always done this. Dust accumulated on his forearms, sticky, mixed with the sweat trickling down his neck beneath the Torq that sawed at his skin.

  Around him, the others worked in silence. Their movements were slow, precise—those of men who had long since learned that haste served no purpose. An old man, his shoulders stooped from years of labor, glanced sideways at Marc before returning to his task. A younger one, his cheeks hollowed by hunger, licked his cracked lips before lifting a block too heavy for him.

  Marc continued.

  He noted the details. Four guards on Level 2. Two near the main staircase, two more by the storage bins. Copper-rank Vektors, better equipped than those above, their armor less dull, their Tulwars better maintained. One of them, a stocky man with scarred arms, watched the workers with a hard gaze, as if looking for an excuse to strike. The other, leaner, spoke in low tones with one of the apparent overseers of the mining operation—a Terrak—likely exchanging bribes to overlook stolen ore.

  Ventilation shafts. Marc looked up at the narrow, grilled openings piercing the gallery’s ceiling. Too small for a man to slip through. Emergency exits? He saw none. Only the descending ramp ahead, leading down to Level 3.

  The chained man approached, dragging his shackles with a metallic scrape. His gnarled fingers, covered in scars and mineral stains, closed around a block, which he tossed into a basket with a sharp clack. He watched Marc from the corner of his eye, lips pressed tight, as if gauging his resilience. Then, with a slow gesture, he brought two fingers to his lips and mimed drinking, his gaze fixed on the guards. Marc understood. They drink. Often.

  The man nodded almost imperceptibly before jerking his chin toward the two Vektors by the bins.

  The stockier one had just pulled a flask from his belt and was taking a long swig, his throat working with each swallow.

  The liquid trickled down his chin in a thin indigo line, staining his lips dark blue. The other guard laughed, a rough sound, and reached out for his share. The first Vektor tossed him the flask with a grunt, but his eyes remained fixed on the prisoners, wary, as if he sensed he was being watched.

  The chained man leaned toward Marc again, this time miming a downward punch, followed by a wiping motion with his hand. They stumble. Sometimes. His fingers trembled slightly, not from fear, but from contained excitement—the kind of a man who had found a potential ally in this hopeless pit. He then pointed at the ground, where a slick of black, thick oil had spread near a guard’s feet. Watch where you step, he seemed to say.

  Marc didn’t react. He simply nodded, just enough for the other to know he understood.

  Then he went back to work.

  He thought back to what Davorin had told him earlier.

  — You want to know why I’m here? Davorin had murmured after a long silence.

  — I was a Terrak. A builder. I built walls, bridges. One day, I refused to build a prison for Drels. Not out of kindness. On principle. Now I’m here.

  Marc was silent for a long moment, staring at his dust-covered hands. The Torq burned against his nape, a constant reminder of his new condition. He turned to Davorin, who was watching the guards with a detached air.

  — Why help me? he asked in Korp, his voice hoarse.

  Davorin didn’t answer right away. He spat on the ground, a blackish streak that splattered against the stone with a wet sound. Then he turned to Marc, his eyes narrowed.

  — Because you’re like me. Not a slave. A man. Will. Rare…

  He tapped his Torq, the metal ringing faintly.

  — …Allies are rare here. More than gold Sols.

  Marc nodded, feeling the weight of Davorin’s words settle inside him like a new chain. Not a chain of iron. A chain of choice.

  — Fight? he asked in Korp.

  Davorin let out a dry laugh, sharp as a whipcrack.

  — Die. But on your feet, at least.

  He stood, the shackles on his ankles jingling faintly.

  — Enough talk. Tomorrow. Work.