The descent into the second level of the Labyrinth was like stepping into the throat of a dying world. The air shimmered with heat, heavy and choking, thick with the metallic tang of sulfur and ash. Rivers of molten rock pulsed through cracks in the obsidian ground, casting everything in a violent orange glow that never dimmed.
Here, the walls were alive — not with creatures, but with sound. The constant rumble of magma veins, the crack of stone splitting under heat, and the rhythmic clang of claw tools echoed endlessly through the caverns. The temperature was unbearable for anyone unaccustomed to torment, yet hundreds of prisoners toiled here
Their task was endless: mining Energy Stones, luminous crystals that grew like tumors in the volcanic rock. These stones pulsed with life, feeding off the heat of the labyrinth itself — a resource so potent that even a shard could buy you so much on the first level. But here, they were both a treasure and a curse. Every time a prisoner shattered one free, the crystal screamed — a sharp psychic wail that tore through the mind and left the miners trembling.
Above them, narrow bridges of black iron crisscrossed the cavern like spiderwebs. Overseers — creatures half-armored, machines — watched with cold, glimmering eyes. Their whips crackled with searing energy, each strike a hiss of fire that left the air smelling of burnt flesh.
In the center of the level stood the Heart Furnace, a colossal machine that drank magma through pipes and exhaled steam like a beast at rest. It was said the furnace was once human-built, long ago, when this level was merely a mining colony — before it sank into the Labyrinth's hunger. Now, it powered the entire subterranean maze, its heartbeat synced with the agony of those chained to its veins.
They pushed deeper into the Infernal Mines, a caravan of thirty-plus strangers cutting a strange, new pattern into the old rhythm of the prisoners' work. Molten veins ran like bleeding arteries along the path; each step sent up sparks that tasted like metal in the throat. Faces turned as they passed — hollow-eyed, soot-streaked, expressions folded into resigned curiosity. For a place that devoured hope, it noticed newcomers with the slow, hungry interest of something that remembers every lost promise.
A shadow detached itself from the claw tool chorus and fell into step with them. He moved with the creak of a man who had learned to make his body small around pain: ash-black skin, scars mapped across his scalp where hair had been burned away, the long beard of a man who'd forgotten how to trim himself because years had taught him that cleanliness was a luxury. His eyes were polished obsidian. He fixed his gaze on Oscar and, with a dry smirk, asked, "Young man — I presume you're the leader of this lot?"
Oscar said nothing. Silence in the Labyrinth carried weight; the old man laughed as if he'd been given a toy. "You know," he said, voice like grit, "if you want to mine here you need a pass. Mind showing me yours?"
"What pass?" Oscar asked, frowning.
"Oh, you didn't know?" The old man's grin widened. "To mine in these veins you need a special pass. Bought from the merchant on the first level. No pass, and the Seers will detain you — send you down to the fourth." He let the threat hang there like steam.
"We're not here to mine," Oscar said. "We just want to find someone."
At the name, the old man's eyes tilted. "Oh? Someone, eh? I might be able to help."
Mahin, who had been trailing a step behind, cut forward like a short coil about to spring. "Have you seen a man — old, cloaked? We think he passed this way not long ago." His voice had the edge of someone who had spent too much time under watchful lids.
Tarko — that's what he called himself after a pause — scratched his beard with a finger blackened to the knuckle. "Hmm. The Fallen One, you mean?"
Mahin's patience snapped. He lunged, grabbing the old man's tunic. "Where is he? Tell us!"
Oscar stepped in, hands up, grounding Mahin with a look. "Calm," he said. "Where did you see him?"
The old man's face rearranged into something like calculation. "How much are you willing to pay?"
The question drew confused stares. "What do you mean?" Oscar said.
"Nothing's free here. Not even the breath," Tarko replied. "If you want the Fallen One, it'll cost you."
Mahin spat. "What do you want?"
Judging by his appearance, Tarko said, "You were just thrown in here. You've got a claw tool or two at most. I'll make a bargain: twenty claw tools and three uniforms, and I tell you where he went."
Oscar watched him — watched the hollowed edges of a man who had bartered away dignity so often he'd lost its value. He stepped closer and asked, quietly, "What's your name, old man?"
"Prisoner 5512. Tarko, before," the man answered after a beat.
Oscar put a steady hand on Tarko's shoulder. "Nice to meet you, Tarko. I have a better deal. I can make you free."
For a moment, the ash-darkened beard trembled with something like disbelief. Thirty years in the Labyrinth had gnawed the very idea of freedom down to a rumor; men came to this level and were swallowed. "Do you think I'm that stupid?" Tarko barked. "I've heard promises. I'll tell you if you pay. Otherwise—"
"Listen." Oscar's voice was calm enough to steel them. "We're getting out of here — with or without you. But I'll make you this promise: if you tell us where the Fallen One is and we don't get you out within two days, you'll have every tool and every uniform we carry. I swear it."
Something small, stubborn, and very human twitched in Tarko. He'd watched hope get fed and die in the mouths of others, yet the promise of fresh earth underfoot reached him in a place the Labyrinth hadn't managed to crush. He blinked, the world narrowing to this one risky gamble.
"You better not fill me with lies," he muttered. "You'll pay."
"The Fallen One went to the furnace. That's where I last saw him."
Oscar laughed softly.
"Thank you," Mahin said, breathless relief trying to wedge itself into his voice.
They began to move again, but Tarko's hand shot out, stopping them. "Where do you think you're all going? Didn't I tell you about the pass? If every one of you goes to the furnace, the Seers will net you. Then you'll be sent down, and I won't be able to help."
Oscar looked at him. "So what do you suggest?"
"Three," Tarko said, counting on fingers with a miner's precision. "Take three. Only three to the furnace. The rest—make their way to the third level. Meet there. That's the best chance you've got."
Oscar turned to the crew, his face a map of decisions. "You heard him," he said. "I'll go with Mahin. Halley, you keep the others safe and get them to the third level. Be careful — this place is wrong in ways you can't imagine. We find Kaiser the Second, and then we find a way out. I promise we'll all make it home."
For a heartbeat, the prisoners' faces showed the barest flare of something like hope. In a place built on the ruin of promises, that flaring was dangerous — but it was also the only thing that mattered. They split then: three toward the furnace, the rest shadowing each other like a small, fragile convoy moving away from the heart of the world's heat.
As Oscar, Mahin, and Tarko edged toward the Heart Furnace, the air itself seemed to watch them — heavy, expectant. The furnace's distant throb answered, like a pulse beneath bone. The only sound that mattered now was the beat of their own boots and the steady, dangerous hope in their chests.