The corridors had been barricaded by the ratkin. Scrap-planks nailed and roped together to hold against an attack. There was a foot-high gap between the wood and the dungeon roof. Seventh could see reflecting eyes of the ratkin on the lookout for enemies.

  Walking closer in the scavenger group he was roped into, he could see one side of the barricade open up. A passageway only the ratkin knew, and could easily traverse.

  Baskets were placed in row, and quickly pulled in, followed by the tired ratkin. And an undead spirit masquerading as one of their own.

  On the other side was a group of warriors on watch duty. Heavily armed, armored ratkin looking suspiciously at the returners. Some were ushered to speak and check if they just looked dead-tired, and weren't actually dead.

  Leader of the guards grunted an order to move, and the baskets were lifted again. Gathering group moved towards the hall where Seventh had his first major battle against the ratkin. He wouldn't have recognized the place without the large closed gate at the far end of the hall.

  It was teeming with ratkin. Hundreds of them carrying planks, bags and baskets full of items or just hurrying around seemingly at random. There weren't any streets and to Seventh the crowd moved in chaos.

  The large pillars were covered in scaffolding, and dozens of furry shapes were skittering on rickety bridges connecting them. Seventh couldn't fathom what the structures were for. Fortifications?

  Colorful smells wafted in the air, colliding and combining. Painting an abstract tapestry in the air. Strong earthy colors of brown and green subtly highlighted by drops of blue, red, and orange.

  His gawking was interrupted by loud sniffing, and a strong jab to his ribs. Looking at his left side, he could see a bony, grey-furred elder. He looked absolutely ancient with his long, bony fingers, thinning fur, and bulging eyes. Seventh also had a good view to the twitching nose hairs when he was thoroughly sniffed.

  He made a gulp. What did the ratkin smell? The undead? Magic? Something else? Was this a normal greeting?

  Looking around, Seventh couldn't see other sniffing around so this seemed like an outlier in social norms. Some of the ratkin even slowed down to look at the elder.

  With a final deep sniff, the elder spoke, “Smoke and iron? Metalwork. Shift has started! You go! Go!”

  There was another poke to get Seventh moving, but there was a problem. He didn't know where he was supposed to go.

  Looking awkwardly around, he tried to see where the baskets were being carried. Nowhere. They were neatly piled next to the corridor mouth where the group had come from and the group had already scattered away from the barricade.

  “Erh— where's the metalworking stations? Forges?” Seventh's voice came out as ratkin speech. The elder looked surprised at his words.

  “You stupid as well as slow girl? There!” The elder's finger lifted towards one of the closer corners. “There is fire. Metal and clang. Follow that!”

  Seventh gained another poke before he hurried towards the pointed corner. There was indeed more light— actually the only proper light— of the whole hall.

  The closer he came, the stronger the smell became. Rusted-brown and charred-grey.

  Workers were speaking merrily, and chucking small pieces of wood into one-foot high, four-feet wide raised forges. Bellows made from repurposed leather satchels tied to planks were placed between two forges, one ratkin could work them and provide proper airflow for two. Wood was piled at the corner, occasionally a worker came and raised the pile with a broken piece of plank or scrap pieces of wood.

  A dozen of smaller, younger ratkin were running around the forges. Moving the wood with poker, and working on the bellows. The heat was rising and the heart of the forges started to glow red.

  Seventh listened to the two burly workers standing next to— well, it was probably used as an anvil, but looked like a cracked slab of metal that had been filed and polished to a smooth surface. It didn't stand on a piece of wood or wasn't secured to the ground.

  Pliers, tongs, hammers, and pieces of metal lay next to two anvils. Seemingly randomly scattered around.

  “Four buckets of long nails. Then shortswords until break. One set of armor, if we have time. Or iron,” the taller— and older— one with brown fur said. “The last iron collection was crappy, and—“

  He stopped talking, twitched his nose, and turned to look at Seventh. “Ah, she must be one of the hell-folk! Perfect timing!” he turned to yell and gesture wildly at the row of smiths waiting for their forges to get hot. “Oi! Iron— get!”

  All of the burly smiths snapped out of their conversations and looked at the speaker. Seeing there was indeed a basketful of wall-iron, they grumpily moved to get one of their own.

  The other smith next to Seventh had started to peruse the basket and counted the sconces. He made neat rows of the raw material and nodded happily.

  “Iron for whole day. Can make armor, and even have some for tomorrow.” The other ratkin, black fur with lighter tones running from his upper throat to his upper abdomen, said. His speech was quieter, surprisingly less ratlike.

  He was also clearly younger of the two. Both were in good shape, like all the other smiths getting their baskets of iron. Tall, broad shouldered, and muscled from the hard work of shaping iron.

  Seventh felt his head tilt in admiration for a moment before he could snap it back to attention.

  The younger one's attention shifted to Seventh. “You're not one of the usual workers. Shift or work change?”

  Having no idea what he should do, Seventh copied one of Fang-Knifes favorite moves. He shrugged.

  The older one snorted. “Worked before as forge-helper? Is easy. Just feed wood and work bellows. Not difficult, just hard. Watch others. Learn.”

  Seventh nodded and checked the pile of wood before other helpers returned. He grabbed couple of the bigger pieces and chucked them to the forge.

  “Oi! Place proper, make a mound!” The brown one said and used his own poker to place the wood in a better position. “Is warmer inside, make a pile that burns hot outside, makes the inner hotter.”

  “And then, you hammer iron until it obeys.” He lifted a large hammer from next to the anvil, and smacking it to rest on his shoulder. A wide smile rose to his lips.

  He had a happy smile. Genuine. He was properly pleased to talk to someone new about his passion— or at least his work.

  Although— the ratkin lifted his leg on the corner of the forge, and slightly bend forwards. His left elbow rested on his knee. And he seemed to— flex.

  Seventh's gaze moved to the younger one. He was rolling his eyes and moving the iron inside the heating forge.

  Seventh looked down. He was aware of the biological changes that had occurred after changing bodies, but he hadn't expected... this.

  The situation made him snort, and he quickly covered his face with his hand. Mainly to cover up his lips pursing into a smile, but also to stop himself from laughing at the situation.

  “Sounds very— interesting.” Seventh had collected himself and tried to keep his face neutral.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  The smith's mock-wounded face didn't help.

  “Bah, can't blame for trying, eh? Maybe Soot-Fur has more luck?” Soot-Fur was poked with an elbow, and he looked mildly pained.

  Soot sighed while continuing his work, and pulled one of the iron pieces out of the forge to inspect its temperature. “More air. Use the bellows.”

  Seventh looked at the collapsed leather bag, and lifted the plank tied to it. There was a wheeze as the bag filled with air, and a woosh of air when the plank was brought down. The forge glowed, smoke rising from the heart of the forge.

  “Good. We need an even heat the whole time, so work the bellows slowly. The temperature rises eventually. Hardest part is to feed enough wood. It burns up fast.”

  To make his point, a ratkin approached from the wood pile and added more to the forges. Seventh hadn't even noticed the others had returned.

  The smith pointed at the other forge next to them. “Use bellows for them too. One blow for us, then to them. When you tire, switch with others.”

  Looking at the other forge, Seventh noticed it was a lot colder than the one Soot and older smith were working on. He grabbed the other plank, and started to work the two bellows. One at a time, even heat.

  Since their forge was worked the most, and they had the iron heating before everybody else, Soot and the smith started their hammering.

  A glowing piece of iron was quickly placed on the anvil by smith and hammered with precise blows into a thin bar. It was tapered with a single blow, making a lopsided point.

  The halfway ready nail was then placed on a cutting edge of the crude anvil, and almost hammered off. With a tiny sliver of metal still keeping the soon-to-be nail on, it was placed on a nail header, and with a twist separated from the stock.

  One blow later the nail had its head. The smith tapped the header gently at the side of the anvil, making the fresh nail drop to the ground. Soot worked his own piece, slightly longer than his master.

  The process was repeated at every forge. A dozen anvils sang as the hammers shaped hot metal.

  Seventh stared at the process mystified. The ratkin were creating something out of nothing. Working sconces into nails. Creation, not destruction.

  That... wasn't an action of a monster.

  This wasn't just a band of dungeon mobs clustered together for security. It was a society. They had jobs, language.

  A loud yelp got Seventh's attention and he lifted his gaze from the nailmaking. He saw a group of elder ratkin. Thin furred, hunched men and women walking around. Harassing the younger ratkin to work without doing themselves much.

  Social structure.

  They also had something he hadn't seen before in a ratkin. Tails. Long, thin whips of sinew curling around, keeping their balance.

  Seventh looked over at his own shoulder just to make sure he hadn't one. Nope. Neither did Fang when he thought about it. Wasn't he in high standing in his clan— this clan?

  Were they born without tails or had they been cut of at some point? Accident, on purpose?

  An alien memory crawled inside Seventh's head.

  There was a time when Shank-Tooth had a tail. Long time ago. Her opinions of the brutes and the Chief's ideas of expansion to the surface were not well received.

  Lot of yelling. Angry face of a white ratkin, hissing. Pain, humiliation.

  A mutilated tail on a cavern floor. Stubbing, punishment for defying the blessed ones born with a tail.

  Seventh yelped a high-pitched sound, and fell on his butt. He had no idea how long he had been using the bellows.

  Soot and the smith looked up from the half finished sword. When had they started doing that?

  “Ya, all right there girlie? We tried to talk, but you were... blanking out,” the older one asked while soot placed the metal back to the forge to heat back up.

  Seventh nodded wildly and made a small laugh. “Yeah, I— yeah zoned out for a bit. Getting the hang of the job.”

  There was laughter from the other forges and the smith joined the raucously. Even Soot had a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

  Feeling his cheeks heat a little bit— there was two forges next to him, what would he expect?— Seventh started to work the bellow again, but felt how his knees were wobbly.

  How long had he been working? Hours? No wonder the Lesser Stamina ranked up. He would have to find a laboring job at the outside if he wanted to rank it up fast.

  The unusual laughter had summoned the elder squad to check nobody had too much fun. Seventh saw a familiar ratkin that had ushered him to the forges. He looked annoyingly smug, but Seventh gave him a friendly smile nevertheless.

  “You know Elder Fast-Strike?” Soot asked when they were out of earshot.

  “No. He just poked me here when I returned from a scavenging run.”

  The smith's eyes narrowed. “Wait. You had a shift before this? Why you here then, working? Why not eating, and sleeping?”

  That was a good question that Seventh had no answers for. Being a bad liar— or at least assuming he would be one, he had been honest his whole undead life— he told the truth— kinda.

  He shrugged.

  The smith glared at him, trying to pressure him to speak, but when the iron was hot enough, his attention shifted, and the oddity of Seventh's schedule was forgotten by him.

  But Soot still made careful glances at Seventh before a rhythmic drumbeat echoed.

  The smaller helpers yipped loudly, and quickly scattered around. Disappearing to the shadows.

  Seventh almost panicked. He had no idea what was happening, but the metalworkers didn't look worried. Actually, the opposite.

  They were pulling the iron out of the forges, counting their work, and loudly exclaiming who had made the most nails, who had the best sword.

  Smith and Soot had done very well to themselves. Others made jealous yells, and made one fingered salutes to their way.

  “Ya got the good worker to help, yes? We get her after break! We have more work, armor coming up!”

  “We also have to make armor next, you're not special! We keep her!”

  Working for hours on end apparently made a good impression on this society and other smiths approached Seventh to ask if he was willing to change his position.

  “Ehh, no. I keep with Soot-Fur and...” Seventh spun his hand in a circle while trying to remember other ratkin's name. Did he have a name? Surely he had to have one.

  The brown smith smiled widely. “Spine-Cracker.”

  “...Spine-Cracker,” Seventh continued with a nervous laughter. He guessed it wasn't a ratkin spines Cracker had cracked to gain that name.

  He received a boisterous laughter, and a titanic slap on his back. Seventh made another high-pitched yelp and tried to punch Cracker, but he was already retreating towards a gathering group. A long line snaking around the unsteady scaffolding surrounding one of the pillars.

  Assuming he had to also move, Seventh followed the workers, and found himself slowly shuffling forward. He was just one of many in the crowd. A ratkin among his kind.

  It made him happy. And the warm feeling turned to ice. He? Happy?

  Among the clan he had exterminated without a cause for so long? For what? Ranks?

  Someone pushed him softly from behind and suggested him to move, follow the line. Seventh nodded mechanically and focused on the back of the ratkin in front of him.

  The warmth was still there. Spreading again. It got stronger when Seventh noticed the first whiff of food. Vegetables and meat, reddish-orange tangled in deep-brown with black spots. There was a little char on the meat.

  The line crept forward, giving Seventh too much time to think about his mission, his unwanted quest.

  He had forgotten what he had come here for. Finding a way to kill more ratkin. Completing a quest.

  A quest he didn't even accept. It had just clicked 'Approve' on itself. At the moment he had been too tired, too weary to think or object.

  But now?

  The warmth inside him roiled. A forge getting a fresh intake of air.

  How had he been so blind? It was a trick, a way to force him to obey and follow “divine” orders. If he had the chance— he would have not accepted this quest. Not an extermination.

  This wasn’t divine command. It was shackles dressed as scripture.

  And the thought of shaking them off— it wasn’t liberating. It was terrifying. And yet, in the terror, a sliver of freedom.

  In the press of bodies, in the stink of people, he realized Hunting, Monsters might not be a god at all. Just a power. A tyrant in the shape of one.

  He had stopped again, and whoever was behind him had enough of the interruptions.

  “Move short-snout. Others have less time to eat.” A female sound came from the back with a more forceful push. It was more fuel to the fire.

  He had an insult ready in his mind. Spinning quickly around, he opened his mouth with a sneer— and clamped it shut.

  There was a young adult behind him. Light brown fur, and fierce red eyes staring at him angrily.

  And a small bundle tied tightly across her chest. Seventh saw the small eyes looking up at him.

  He looked back down at the eyes of a ratkin pup.

  “I— uh. You can go first. I have... things.” Seventh moved out of the way, and gestured the mother to move forward.

  She raised an eyebrow, but made a small nod. Taking Seventh's place, the bundle was right next to him.

  The pup got one of their arms out and stretched towards Seventh. Hand gently closing and opening, trying to get a hold of something.

  Seventh lifted his hand, and gently brushed the tiny fingers. They were so small and fragile.

  The small eyes stared at him, boring deep into his soul.

  Something broke.

  The mother and the child continued onward, towards the intertwining smells of food while Seventh stood still. Looking at his hand. A ratkin hand the child had reached.

  Having lost his appetite, Seventh walked away from the line, and started to wander around, heading towards the barricade he had entered through.

  The scaffolding between the pillars were being built quick. Where had been rickety wood hold together by rope and hope was now nailed down. Sturdy, dependable.

  Seventh didn't have a clue what the structure was going to be, but he had a rare flash of pride. He didn't know it for sure, but some of the nails Sooth and Cracker had made could be up there, part of the whole. Doing their part in this society.

  Not having a better plan, Seventh decided this had been enough. He hadn’t found easier ways to kill, but that was fine. He’d had his fill of this clan.

  Only then did he notice the scaffolds connecting over the barricade. Below them a jungle of hanging ropes with ratkin climbing up and down, feverishly painting the dungeon walls.

  A mural stretched across the stone. Pale-green paint marked an undead raising its arms, a horde of ratkin corpses at its feet. Dozens of Wandering Eyes glowed, bathing the dead in eldritch light.

  This was how the ratkin saw him.

  A conquering lich.

  A destroying monster.

  Seventh continued looking at the vast mural of himself until he heard a voice

  next to him.

  "I know who you are."