The barracks smelled of sweat, dried blood, and despair. It was a large, hollowed-out cavern where hundreds of prisoners slept on damp straw mats, packed together like livestock.
Zenthia lay awake, staring at the jagged stone ceiling. Her body should have been screaming in pain. Yesterday, a rockslide had nearly crushed her. Yesterday, she had buried the only person who cared about her. But she felt strange. Her limbs felt light, filled with a restless energy that kept twitching under her skin.
She turned her head to the left. The mat beside her was empty.
Crane was gone.
A lump formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down. Don't cry, she told herself, remembering his dying words. Anger is better than tears.
She looked at her right hand. In the dim light of the dying oil lamps, the mark on her palm looked like a fresh burn. It was a circle of charred black skin, and in the center, a shape that resembled a coiled snake. It didn't hurt anymore. Instead, it felt warm, like she was holding a hot mug of tea.
"Stop moving, girl," a voice grumbled from the mat on her right. It was a large, scarred man named Jarek. He was a brute who survived in the mines by stealing food from the weak. "You're keeping me awake."
"The ground is hard, Jarek," Zenthia replied, her voice flat. "Deal with it."
Jarek sat up, his massive frame casting a long shadow. He looked at her with bloodshot eyes. "You got a big mouth now that your old man is dead? Maybe I should shut it for you."
In the past, Zenthia would have curled into a ball and apologized. She would have offered him her morning bread just to be left alone.
But tonight, the heat in her hand flared up.
"Go back to sleep, Jarek," she said, holding his gaze. She wasn't acting tough; she genuinely didn't feel afraid. It was a confusing sensation. It was as if the fear center of her brain had been numbed.
Jarek frowned. He wasn't used to resistance from the small, skinny girl. He grunted, spat on the floor near her head, and rolled over. "Wait until the shift starts. Without Crane, you're dead meat."
Zenthia looked back at her hand. The black mark seemed to darken, as if it was pleased with her boldness.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound of a heavy iron hammer hitting a metal rail tore through the air. It was the morning alarm.
Groans filled the cavern. Men and women dragged themselves up, coughing up black phlegm. Zenthia stood up. She expected her legs to be stiff, but they were flexible and strong. She rolled her shoulders. No pain.
She joined the line of prisoners shuffling toward the main tunnel. Guards in leather armor stood on either side, holding torches and whips.
At the front of the group stood Warden Varg. He looked even more menacing in the morning light coming from the ventilation shafts. He held a clipboard, his eyes scanning the crowd like a butcher selecting a pig for slaughter.
"Listen up, rats!" Varg shouted. His voice carried over the shuffling feet. "Production is down. The King needs more Fire-Iron. But today... we need something different."
He pointed his whip toward a dark, narrow tunnel that branched off from the main mine. A thick, yellowish fog drifted out of it, smelling of sulfur and rotten eggs.
"The Alchemists need Venom-Moss," Varg announced. "It grows in the deep vents. The air down there is thick. It burns the skin and melts the eyes if you stay too long."
The prisoners muttered in fear. The deep vents were a death sentence. People who went in there usually came back blind, or they didn't come back at all.
"I need five volunteers," Varg grinned.
Silence fell over the crowd. No one moved.
"No heroes today?" Varg tutted. "Fine. I will choose."
He walked down the line. He stopped in front of Jarek. "You. You're big. You can carry a lot."
Jarek turned pale, but he nodded. He knew arguing meant death.
Varg continued walking. He stopped in front of Zenthia.
"And you," Varg said, his eyes gleaming with cruelty. "Little Zenthia. Without your old grandpa to protect you, you're just wasting space in the main mine. You're small. You can fit in the tight crawlspaces."
"Yes, Warden," Zenthia said. Her voice was steady. Too steady.
Varg narrowed his eyes. He expected her to beg, to cry, to drop to her knees. Her calmness annoyed him. "Here," he shoved a rusted metal basket and a small scraping knife into her chest. "Fill it up. If you come back with it empty, I'll throw you back in and seal the door."
The group of five prisoners stood at the entrance of the toxic tunnel. The yellow fog swirled around their ankles.
"Wrap your faces!" Jarek ordered the others. He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and tied it tightly around his nose and mouth. Then, he looked at Zenthia. "Hey, girl. Give me your shirt."
"What?" Zenthia asked.
"My cloth is too thin. I need yours to double layer it," Jarek stepped closer, looming over her. "You're going to die anyway. Let me use it."
"Get away from me," Zenthia said.
Jarek raised a fist. "I said give it to me!"
"Move! Get in there!" A guard shoved them from behind with the butt of a spear. Jarek stumbled, glaring at Zenthia. "I'll deal with you inside," he hissed.
They walked into the fog.
The moment they stepped inside, the air changed. It was hot, heavy, and tasted like metal. The other three prisoners immediately started coughing. One man bent over, retching as the gas hit his stomach.
Zenthia took a shallow breath. She prepared for the burning sensation Crane had described.
But it never came.
Instead, as the yellow gas entered her lungs, a cool sensation spread through her chest. It felt like drinking cold water from a mountain stream.
The mark on her hand throbbed rhythmically.
She looked down. The yellow fog wasn't just drifting; it was moving toward her. Tiny streams of the gas were being pulled into her skin, disappearing into her pores. The mark on her palm was glowing with a faint, reddish light, sucking in the toxins like a vacuum.
It's feeding, Zenthia realized with a start. It's eating the poison.
"My eyes! My eyes are burning!" one of the other prisoners screamed. He was rubbing his face frantically. The gas was irritating the soft tissue.
Zenthia blinked. Her eyes felt clear. In fact, her vision was sharpening. The dark tunnel didn't look so dark anymore. She could see the texture of the rocks, the drip of water from the ceiling, and the patches of green, glowing moss growing in the cracks.
"Keep moving!" Jarek muffled through his cloth mask. His voice sounded strained.
They went deeper. The heat rose. The air became a thick soup of toxicity.
Zenthia felt amazing. The hunger that had gnawed at her stomach for years vanished. Her muscles felt full and tight. The fatigue from yesterday was completely wiped away. The deeper they went, the more poison she absorbed, and the stronger she felt.
She walked ahead of the group, her steps light and fast.
"Slow down!" Jarek wheezed behind her. He was leaning against the wall, sweat pouring down his forehead. "How... how are you moving so fast?"
Zenthia didn't answer. She found a large patch of Venom-Moss. It was slimy and glowed with a sick green light. She used her knife to scrape it into her basket.
Usually, touching Venom-Moss caused blisters. Zenthia grabbed a handful with her bare hand. The moss sizzled against her skin, but instead of burning her, it withered, turning brown and dry as the energy inside it was drained into her palm.
She quickly threw the dried moss into the basket and covered it with fresh moss so no one would see.
I can absorb it from touch too, she thought. This isn't just gas. It's anything toxic.
"Help me..."
Zenthia turned. One of the prisoners had collapsed. His skin was turning a bright shade of red, and foam was bubbling at his mouth. The poison was too strong for him.
Jarek looked at the fallen man, then at Zenthia. He saw her standing there, breathing easily, her basket half-full. He saw that she wasn't coughing. She wasn't even sweating.
A look of confusion and greed crossed Jarek's face.
"You..." Jarek pulled down his mask, spitting out blood-tinged saliva. "You found a clean spot? A draft of fresh air?"
He stumbled toward her. "Move. Give me that spot."
"There is no fresh air, Jarek. It's all the same," Zenthia said calmly. She continued scraping the moss.
"Liar!" Jarek lunged at her. He was desperate. The pain in his lungs was driving him mad, and seeing her so comfortable made him furious. He grabbed her shoulder with his massive hand, intending to throw her against the wall and take her place.
Zenthia reacted on instinct.
She dropped the knife and grabbed Jarek's wrist.
She meant to just pull his hand away. But as her fingers closed around his thick wrist, she felt a surge of power in her arm. It was explosive.
CRACK.
The sound of bone snapping rang out in the tunnel.
"ARGH!" Jarek screamed, falling to his knees. He cradled his arm. His wrist was bent at an unnatural angle.
Zenthia stared at her hand in shock. She hadn't put her body weight into it. she had just squeezed. It was like snapping a dry twig.
Jarek looked up at her, his eyes wide with absolute terror. The pain in his lungs was forgotten; the pain in his arm was blinding. But what scared him more was the girl. The skinny, quiet girl who had just crushed his bone with one hand.
"What are you?" he gasped, scrambling backward, kicking up dust.
Zenthia lowered her hand. Her heart was beating fast, not from exertion, but from the thrill of it. For the first time in her life, she was the one standing, and the monster was the one on the ground.
"I'm a miner," Zenthia said coldly. She picked up her knife. "Just like you."
She stepped closer to him. Jarek flinched, holding his broken arm up to protect his face.
"Listen to me, Jarek," she said, her voice low. "You broke your arm because you fell. The rocks are slippery. Do you understand?"
Jarek nodded frantically. "Yes. I fell. I fell."
"Good." Zenthia turned her back on him. "Now fill your basket. If we don't have enough moss, Varg will kill us both."
Two hours later, they emerged from the tunnel.
Of the five who went in, only three came out. Two had died from the fumes.
Jarek stumbled out, pale and groaning, clutching his broken arm. The other survivor fell to the ground, vomiting uncontrollably.
Zenthia walked out last. Before exiting, she had rubbed dirt and gray ash onto her face to hide her healthy, flushed skin. She forced herself to stoop, dragging her feet as if she were exhausted.
She dropped her heavy basket at Varg's feet. It was overflowing with Venom-Moss.
Varg looked at the basket, then at Zenthia. He seemed disappointed that she was alive.
"You survived," Varg muttered. He poked through the moss with the handle of his whip. "And you got a good haul."
He looked at Jarek. "What happened to your arm?"
Jarek looked at Zenthia. She was staring at the ground, looking small and weak. He remembered the grip of her hand. The sound of his bone snapping.
"I... I slipped," Jarek stammered, sweat stinging his eyes. "The rocks... very slippery."
Varg snorted. "Clumsy oaf. Get to the
infirmary. If you can't work tomorrow, you go to the corpse pit."
Varg turned back to Zenthia. "Not bad, girl. Maybe you aren't useless after all. Go get your food."
Zenthia nodded and walked away. She kept her head down until she was out of sight.
She went behind the equipment shed, near the water troughs. She washed the ash off her face. The reflection in the water showed a girl she barely recognized. Her cheeks, usually hollow, looked slightly fuller. Her eyes were bright and clear. The constant ache in her joints was gone.
She looked at the Black-Iron Mine around her. The smoke stacks, the piles of toxic waste, the green slime leaking from the pipes.
Yesterday, this place was a prison. It was a place where people slowly rotted away until they died.
But today...
Zenthia took a deep breath of the smoggy, polluted air. To anyone else, it smelled like death. To her, it smelled like breakfast.
She realized then that she didn't need to escape the mine. Not yet.
This mine was filled with poison. There were layers of toxic gas, venomous creatures, and corrupted minerals that no one could touch.
To everyone else, those were dangers.
To her, they were resources.
She clenched her fist, feeling the new strength in her muscles. She would stay. She would work. She would volunteer for every dangerous, toxic job Varg had to offer.
And while they thought they were punishing her, she would be feasting.
She looked toward the tall tower where the Warden and the guards lived.
Eat, she thought. Grow strong. And then... hunt.
She turned and walked back toward the barracks, a small, secret smile playing on her lips.
☆☆☆☆