The pickaxe hit stone for the thousandth time that day.
Korath's hands bled. They always bled. The rough wooden handle scraped against wounds that never fully healed before new ones opened. He was twelve years old, and he couldn't remember what it felt like to have hands that didn't hurt.
"Move faster, slave!" The overseer's whip cracked near his head. Korath flinched but kept swinging. Fear was good. Fear kept you alive.
The Crystal Mines of Ashkarn stretched deep into the mountain's belly. Tunnels twisted like a beast's intestines, lit by weak torches that cast more shadow than light. The air tasted of dust and sweat and something else—something sharp that made your throat burn after a few years down here.
Magic crystals. That's what they mined. Beautiful blue stones that nobles used to power their spells and light their mansions. Each crystal was worth more than a slave's life. Korath had seen overseers crush a man's skull for accidentally breaking one.
"Water," someone croaked beside him.
Korath glanced over. An older man, maybe thirty, but down here everyone looked ancient. His skin was gray with dust, eyes sunken. He'd been coughing blood for three days.
"Shut up and work," Korath whispered. Kindness got you killed in the mines. The weak died. That's how it was.
But the man's pickaxe slipped from his hands. He swayed, then collapsed.
The overseer appeared instantly, as if he'd been waiting. He was a thick man with a scarred face and a smile that never reached his eyes. His name was Grell, and he enjoyed his work.
"Get up," Grell said.
The man didn't move.
"I said get up!" The whip came down, opening a red line across the man's back. He barely twitched.
Korath kept his eyes on the wall. Keep working. Don't look. Don't care.
"Useless." Grell kicked the man over, checking his face. "Dead weight. Someone drag this trash to the pile."
Two slaves hurried forward, grabbing the man's arms. Korath caught a glimpse of his face as they pulled him away. The man was still breathing.
They'd throw him in the death pit anyway. Sick slaves were dead slaves.
Korath's hands tightened on his pickaxe. He swung harder, letting the impact jar his bones. Pain was better than feeling.
Sixteen hours they worked. Sixteen hours of darkness and dust and death. When the overseer finally called time, Korath's arms felt like they'd fall off. His back screamed. His lungs burned.
They shuffled back to the slave quarters—a long cave with straw pallets packed so close you could hear everyone breathe. The smell was worse than the mines. Unwashed bodies, sickness, waste buckets that hadn't been emptied in days.
Korath collapsed on his pallet, barely noticing when someone stepped over him. Food came—watery soup and hard bread—but he was too tired to eat. Sleep pulled him down like deep water.
In his dreams, he was seven again. The night his parents died.
Bandits had come to their village. His father fought. His mother hid Korath under the floorboards. He heard everything—the screams, the fire, the silence after.
When he crawled out at dawn, the village was ashes. Bodies everywhere. His parents among them.
He wandered for three days before slavers found him. They put him in chains, and he'd worn them ever since.
Five years in the mines. Five years of darkness.
Korath woke to someone shaking his shoulder.
"Hey. You awake?"
He cracked his eyes open. A face hovered above him—young, maybe sixteen, with a crooked nose and a scar splitting his left eyebrow. The speaker grinned, showing missing teeth.
"Name's Daven," the stranger said. "You're Korath, right? The quiet kid who never talks?"
Korath said nothing. Talking wasted energy.
"Right. Listen, some of us are planning something. Might want in?"
"No."
"You don't even know what it is."
"Don't care."
Daven's grin widened. "It's a way out."
Korath sat up slowly. Around them, other slaves slept or pretended to. You never knew who might tell the overseers for an extra piece of bread.
"There is no way out," Korath said quietly.
"There is if you're willing to bleed for it." Daven's eyes were fever-bright. "Two years I've been planning. Got thirty men willing to try. We move during the next crystal storm."
Crystal storms happened when too much magic built up in the mines. The air crackled, tunnels glowed, and the overseers retreated to the surface. For a few hours, they were on their own.
"You'll die," Korath said.
"Maybe. But I'd rather die trying than rot down here." Daven stood. "Think about it. We leave in three days."
He walked away, leaving Korath alone with the words echoing in his head.
Die trying, or rot down here.
Korath looked at his hands. Blood had dried black under his nails. Five years, and he couldn't remember what freedom felt like.
Maybe he never would.
But maybe—just maybe—dying on your feet was better than living on your knees.