The sky above the Varkhaz mountains was always grey. Either because of the smoke pouring out of forges that never stopped burning, or from the dust kicked up by men digging for precious metals.
It was a place that was never quiet. The sound of hammers hitting metal, pickaxe clawing at ore, and heated metal dipping into water. All of it had become a routine, year after year, season after season - Men dug, others melted what they found, and it got shipped to wherever the empire needed the killing done.
The empire called this place Quarry 11, the largest of the Imperial Quarries. But everyone else had another name for it - The Sinner's Pit.
It was hard to argue with that, as no worker came here by choice. The miners, the blacksmiths, and even the guards who oversee the Quarry 11 - all were refusees dumped here by the empire.
Slaves from failed rebellions, war survivors who should have been dead clean, soldiers of misconduct, street rats who picked the wrong pocket, or boys who didn't know when to keep their mouths shut.
Down here, they worked till their hands bled and backs snapped, and the pit drank it all. Blood, sweat, tears, hope - the mountains were not picky.
And today, new flesh was entering the mines.
Two carriages groaned their way past the enormous iron gates, the kind that induced dread just seeing them close. The carriages lurched to a halt not long after, around a bunch of men draped in yellow and blue uniforms with a sword hanging by their waist.
"Get down, you filths!"
One of the mine guards who had a whip ready in his hand shouted. Looking at him, he probably enjoyed his work - the worst ones always did.
A handful of men and boys stumbled out like newborn calves.
Blinking. Confused.
There were no women or girls in the carriage, they had better uses than rotting away in the underground after all.
The second carriage, however, sat quietly while the men exited the first carriage. Even the one driving it stayed put, saying nothing. Out of courtesy, maybe, or fear.
A few seconds passed as all eyes were perched on the second carriage.
Then a man stepped down.
The guard nearest him went pale as old bone seeing him. He tried not to show it on his face but failed miserably.
The man was bald - not from age but from a razor. Shaved clean and recent. An eyepatch covered his left socket, the leather still new enough to creak. The remaining eye was bloodshot, again not naturally - his pupils were black, a standard colour found in the empire, but around it, red nerves were visible as if forceps pulled them.
His nose sat wrong, twisted to one side like someone had rearranged it with a hammer. Several teeth were missing from his smile - the gaps black as sin. Most of his fingernails were gone too, leaving pink stumps where they used to be.
Every inch of him screamed torture.
The kind that took time, patience, and…creativity.
While the cargoes from the first carriage got dragged forward with boots and curses, no one said a word to the cripple. Not until the guard captain himself came walking over, spurs jingling like bells.
He seemed like a man who had grown comfortable with authority. His belly strained against his uniform like a beer barrel wrapped in leather, his round face flushed red from the mountain air, or perhaps from the flask that never seemed to leave his belt. Thick mutton chops framed his jowls, grey-streaked and well-groomed, the vanity of a man who still thought himself handsome. His eyes were small and shrewd, the kind that missed nothing when it came to profit or trouble.
He stopped dead when he saw the man waiting.
"Sir Russ," his voice caught like a fishhook in his throat. "I am sorry to see you in this…state."
The man called Russ smiled. Without teeth, it looked scary and disgusting.
"I thought you wouldn't recognise me, Sir Sarkas". His words whisled through the gaps. "I couldn't recognise myself, after all."
Sarkas shifted like a man standing on hot coals, not knowing how to respond. However, Russ spoke before the silence could get uncomfortable.
"I won't waste your time, Captain. I trust you have received my gifts?"
His remaining eye flicked to the pouch hanging from Sarkas' belt. Heavy pouch, by the look of it. The kind that clinked when it moved.
"Of course, Sir Russ. You don't need to worry about anything," Sarkas' smile was all grease and false comfort. "I can't do much about your…situation…but I'll ensure your stay in the mines is comfortable."
Comfortable. In a place like this.
"That would be more than enough."
Russ limped forward. His left leg dragged like dead weight. Seemed like a recent break, which had been poorly set - a kind of injury that never healed right.
"Let me guide you towards-"
"Captain-! Captain-!"
A soldier came running, out of breath and red-faced. His face flushed with urgency that meant blood or a collapsed tunnel-usually both.
Sarkas' face went dark.
"What is it? Didn't I tell you not to disturb me while-"
"It's urgent, Captain! Eighty Seven - that bastard's fighting again!"
Eighty Seven!
Hearing that name, Sarakas' expression turned dark to sour, as though his glare alone could curdle milk.
"Not that mad dog again! Seems like he won't rest until I'm dead in my grave. Fucking bast-"
He caught himself, glanced at Russ. Colour rose in his cheeks like spilled wine.
"Forgive me, Sir Russ. You shouldn't see such unpleasant behaviour. Please rest in my quarters while I deal with this matter."
"Unpleasant?" Russ's laugh was like grinding glass. "Is it more unpleasant than my appearance? Are you perhaps mocking me, Sir Sarkas?"
Again, the words whistled through his missing teeth, making them sound more like whispers from a crypt.
"I wouldn't dare, Sir Russ!"
Sarkas collected himself quickly. "It's just…this bastard's been giving me problems for a long time."
"Well," Russ tilted his head like a curious dog. "Can I see what kind of bastard he is? I have all the time in the world now. No more counting coins or balancing ledgers."
"Of course. Of course, Sir Russ!" Sarka's face lit up with a stupid grin, eager to please. His round cheeks bunched like a child's. "I thought I would settle the matter quickly before showing you to your quarters, but naturally, you can watch. Though it might be a bit unsight-"
He stopped mid-sentence. Smart man. Learning fast.
"This way, please."
Sarkas led the way without another word. They walked toward the elevator, which was a generous name for a platform of rusted iron with a handle to hold. Calling it an elevator was like calling a noose a necklace, but words were cheap down here.
Sarkas, the limping Russ, and a handful of soldiers stepped onto the platform. Iron groaned under their weight.
Sarkas nodded to the operator.
The platform jerked, then began its slow descent into the darkness below.
Down, down, down it went.
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