The blue flames never dimmed.
They burned without fuel, without smoke, casting long, trembling shadows across the cavern walls. No dawn. No dusk. Only the endless—
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
Chisels striking black stone in a merciless rhythm, so steady it burrowed into Leon's skull until it felt like his own heartbeat.
He woke to it.
Or perhaps he had never truly slept.
His body lay twisted against the rock bench, chains biting into his ankle. The metal throbbed in time with the deeper ache in his knees—shattered things that refused to heal. The pain hadn't dulled overnight. It had sharpened, grown teeth. A living presence that gnawed patiently, waiting for him to break.
He tried to move.
Bone scraped bone.
A hiss slipped through clenched teeth.
Nearby, Claire was already working.
Her chisel rose and fell in short, efficient strokes. Precise. Relentless. She didn't look at him when she spoke.
"Quota's two baskets before the bell," she said flatly. "Miss it, they take fingers. Or worse."
Leon dragged himself upright using only his arms. The chain rattled—short, cruel, barely enough slack to reach the vein. His legs trailed behind him like dead weight, carving shallow furrows in the frost-dusted floor.
He reached for the chisel Claire had left beside him.
The handle was worn smooth by countless hands before his. The blade was chipped, but sharp enough.
He struck.
The impact jolted up his arms, rattled his teeth. The black rock barely chipped. A faint violet shimmer pulsed where metal met stone—then vanished.
He struck again.
Harder.
CLANG.
This time the ore answered.
A low vibration rolled through the bench, up his arms, into his chest. Not sound. Resonance. Like standing too close to a bell as it rang.
Mueor.
Soft. Patient.
Leon froze.
Claire glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Her gaze sharpened—but she said nothing. Her chisel resumed its steady rhythm.
Time blurred.
Hours passed—or what passed for hours here. Time was measured in filled baskets, in the slow fire spreading from shoulders to spine, in fingers growing numb and useless. Slaves shuffled past in chains, hauling woven baskets heavy with violet-veined shards. Some coughed wetly. Others moved like ghosts, eyes hollow, already gone.
Then the overseers arrived.
The scarred man came first.
Grave.
His fox-fur hood was thrown back, revealing a scalp mapped with old burns and puckered scars. Two younger overseers followed him, whips coiled at their hips. One carried a short iron rod.
Grave stopped at Leon's bench.
"Thirty-Seven."
Leon kept his head down. Struck once. Twice.
Grave kicked the basket.
Empty.
"Quota's half done," Grave said mildly. "Legs don't work, but arms do. Or they will after I break them."
Leon said nothing.
Grave crouched low, close enough that Leon smelled old meat and sulfur on his breath.
"You heard it," the man murmured. "Last night. Singing through the rock."
Leon's chisel hesitated mid-swing.
Grave smiled. The scar on his face pulled tight.
"Thought so. Fresh meat always hears clearest." He straightened. "You'll finish your quota. Or I'll chain you facing the vein wall. Let it sing to you till your mind cracks."
He nodded once to the rod-bearer.
"Help him focus."
The first blow slammed across Leon's shoulders.
White fire exploded behind his eyes.
The second struck his ribs—air bursting from his lungs in a broken gasp.
He didn't scream.
He struck the rock instead.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
Faster. Sloppier. Desperate.
Claire's chisel slowed beside him. She watched without turning her head.
The rod fell twice more.
Then Grave moved on.
Leon kept striking.
Blood slid from a split lip, dripped onto the black stone.
The moment it touched the vein—
The rock answered.
Violet light flared—bright, sudden, furious. The bench shuddered violently. A groan rose from deep within the cavern, not wind, not stone.
MUEOR.
Louder now.
Clearer.
Fragments of meaning that weren't words:
…serve…
…bind…
…endure…
Leon's hand spasmed. The chisel slipped. He caught himself on the bench, palm slamming into a freshly broken shard.
It burned.
Not cold.
Hot.
Like embers pressed into flesh.
He tore his hand back with a strangled gasp. A thin cut wept dark blood. Where it touched the ore embedded in the wound, the blood steamed—then stopped freezing. It stayed liquid.
Warm.
The pain in his knees shifted.
Not gone.
Muted.
As though something unseen had wrapped around the broken bones and held them together by sheer, merciless will.
Claire stared at him now, openly.
"You shouldn't be conscious," she whispered. "That flare… it should've knocked you out cold."
Leon looked at his palm.
The cut was already sealing—crusted not with ice, but with something darker. Almost black.
Grave returned.
He saw the fading glow in the vein.
Saw Leon still upright.
His eyes narrowed.
"Interesting."
He gestured.
The overseers seized Leon by the arms and dragged him backward. His legs scraped uselessly across the stone, agony spiking through the strange, muffled warmth that now lived beneath his skin.
They chained him tighter—this time to the wall.
Facing the vein.
So close his breath fogged the black rock.
Grave leaned in.
"Stay here tonight," he said softly. "Listen. Maybe it'll teach you obedience."
Then he turned away.
The blue flames dimmed, guttering low. Slaves were herded out in clanking lines. Claire lingered a heartbeat longer than the rest. She met Leon's gaze.
"Don't fight it," she said quietly. "Fighting makes it hurt more."
Then she was gone.
Alone.
The cavern fell silent, save for distant wind howling far above.
And the vein.
It pulsed.
Slow. Steady.
Like a heart buried beneath miles of stone.
Mueor whispered again.
…endure…
Leon closed his eyes.
The warmth in his palm spread—up his arm, into his chest.
Not comfort.
A promise.
The mountain had chosen him.
And now it was teaching him how to survive its lessons—
One cut at a time.