CHAPTER 2 — THE WEIGHT OF BEING USEFUL
Morning did not announce itself.
There was no lightening of the sky, no gradual warmth seeping through stone. The cold simply changed character—less biting, more heavy—settling deeper into the bones as if the night had decided to stay.
Eirik woke before the others.
Not because he was rested, but because the ground beneath him had gone from merely cold to punishing. The packed earth leeched heat with a patience that bordered on deliberate cruelty. His breath fogged faintly in front of his face, the vapor thin and quick to vanish.
He lay still for several breaths, listening.
The barracks breathed around him. Shallow inhales. Occasional coughs. A muted whimper from somewhere near the brazier where the weakest had clustered for warmth. Outside, the wind had eased, but not disappeared—it slid along the stone walls instead, searching for gaps.
Someone groaned.
Another didn't wake at all.
Eirik turned his head slightly.
The boy on the pallet beside him lay on his side, knees drawn up, lips tinged faintly blue. Frost had gathered in his hair overnight, thin white lines tracing his scalp. His chest did not rise.
No one noticed.
Not yet.
Eirik pushed himself up slowly, careful not to waste movement. His muscles protested immediately—tight, sore, unfamiliar. This body had been worked hard and fed little. Each joint felt a step behind his intent, as though he had to wait for it to catch up.
He swung his legs off the pallet and stood.
The cold hit harder upright.
It crawled up from the floor, wrapping around his calves, biting into skin where cloth had ridden up during the night. He adjusted his stance, redistributing weight to ease the ache in his knees.
Around him, others stirred.
A man stumbled while standing, caught himself against the wall. Someone else retched quietly into the corner, nothing but bile and thin spit coming up. A third simply lay there, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes, breath shallow but present.
The older overseer returned without ceremony.
The door opened, letting in a rush of gray light and colder air. He stepped inside, boots crunching against frost that had crept across the floor. His gaze swept the room once.
He stopped at the blue-lipped boy.
Bent. Pressed two fingers against the boy's neck.
Straightened.
"Carry him," he said, pointing to two nearby Thralls. "Outside."
One of them hesitated.
The overseer's iron rod tapped once against the man's shin—not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to leave no doubt.
They moved.
The body was lighter than it should have been. Eirik saw it in the way the two men adjusted their grip, surprise flickering briefly across their faces. Starvation hollowed things out quickly here.
The door closed again.
"Eat," the overseer said.
He gestured toward a stack of wooden bowls near the brazier. Inside them was a gray mash that steamed faintly, smelling of grain and something bitter. No meat. No salt.
Those closest lunged first.
Eirik waited.
Not out of pride. Out of calculation.
He watched hands snatch bowls, spill half their contents in their haste. Watched shoulders collide, weak bodies jostling for position. One man slipped and went down hard, his bowl skittering across the floor, its contents soaking into the dirt.
No one helped him.
The overseer didn't react.
Eirik moved only when the rush had thinned.
He took a bowl, steadying it with both hands, and returned to his pallet. He ate slowly, chewing until the grain paste dissolved, forcing himself to swallow despite the bitterness that coated his tongue.
It wasn't enough food.
But it was something.
Outside, the Hall grounds were already alive.
Work began immediately.
No instructions beyond gestures. No explanations. You watched someone else doing it, then you did the same—until your body failed or the overseer decided you were wasting time.
Eirik was assigned to stone haul.
He learned what that meant within minutes.
They were marched to a quarry cut into the mountain's lower flank, a jagged wound of dark rock and ice. Blocks of stone lay half-buried in snow, each one rough-hewn and irregular, their edges sharp enough to draw blood through cloth.
Sleds waited nearby. Thick wooden frames reinforced with iron bands, runners scarred from years of use.
The work was simple.
Lift.
Load.
Pull.
The stone was heavier than it looked.
The first time Eirik bent to lift his assigned block, the weight surprised him. His arms shook as he straightened, muscles screaming in protest. He adjusted his grip, sliding fingers into shallow grooves where others had gripped before him.
The block scraped against his forearms, skin tearing slightly where stone caught flesh. Warmth bloomed briefly before the cold reclaimed it, numbing the pain.
He set it onto the sled.
The man beside him collapsed halfway through his lift.
The block fell.
It crushed his foot.
The scream cut through the wind, sharp and raw.
The overseer turned.
Looked.
Then gestured.
Two Thralls dragged the screaming man aside. Blood stained the snow dark. His cries faded quickly—not because he stopped hurting, but because the cold took his breath.
Work resumed.
No one spoke.
The sleds were hauled across uneven ground toward the Hall's outer wall, where the stone would be stacked for reinforcement. The path sloped upward, shallow but relentless. Snow packed underfoot, slippery in places where ice hid beneath.
Eirik leaned into the pull, shoulders burning, breath coming in short, controlled bursts. He timed each step with the movement of the sled, letting momentum do part of the work.
Around him, others strained.
Some tried to rush, burning energy too fast. Others lagged, dragging the sled unevenly, drawing sharp looks from the overseer.
One man slipped.
The sled lurched sideways.
The stone shifted.
It crushed him against the ground.
The sound his ribs made was dull, final.
The overseer approached, looked down at the body.
Then at the remaining Thralls.
"Adjust," he said.
They did.
The body was left where it fell.
By midday, Eirik's hands were numb.
Not the dull ache of cold, but the deeper numbness that stole fine sensation. His fingers felt thick, clumsy, as if wrapped in layers of cloth that weren't there. He flexed them between pulls, restoring circulation as best he could.
The wind picked up.
Snow began to fall again, light at first, then heavier, obscuring distance and flattening the landscape into shades of gray. The Hall's black stone walls loomed through it like something half-buried, unyielding.
Eirik glanced toward the mountain's upper reaches.
High above, clouds pressed low against jagged peaks, their edges ragged. Something about the way they gathered felt… heavy. Not immediately dangerous. Just oppressive.
The feeling passed.
Work continued.
By the time the overseer finally raised his hand to halt them, Eirik's arms trembled constantly. His breath rasped, each inhale scraping cold air against raw lungs. Sweat clung to his back beneath his thin clothes, already cooling dangerously.
They were given water.
Not warm. Not clean. Snowmelt poured into shallow cups, carrying grit and the faint taste of stone. Eirik drank slowly, ignoring the ache in his teeth.
He did not sit.
He had seen what happened to those who sat too quickly.
Afternoon brought a new task.
Clearing snow from the Hall's upper approach.
It was thankless work. Shovels scraped against stone, metal ringing dully. Snow drifted back almost as fast as it was cleared, carried on gusts of wind that seemed to delight in undoing effort.
Eirik worked steadily.
Not fast.
Not slow.
He matched his pace to his breathing, conserving what little energy he had. He noticed patterns—the way the wind funneled between two walls, depositing more snow there; the spot where stone beneath the surface was smoother, allowing quicker clearing.
He adjusted accordingly.
Others did not.
One man worked furiously, shoveling as if speed might impress someone. His movements grew sloppy. His breaths came too fast.
He collapsed without warning.
The shovel clattered across stone.
The overseer watched him for a long moment.
Then turned away.
Snow covered the man's face within minutes.
By the time dusk crept in, Eirik's body felt hollowed out. Hunger gnawed at him, dull and constant. Every joint ached. His vision had narrowed slightly at the edges, darkening when he stood too quickly.
Still, he remained upright.
Back in the barracks, the atmosphere had changed.
The brazier burned brighter now, stoked higher against the coming night. Fewer bodies crowded around it. The empty pallets were noticeable, gaps where someone had slept the night before.
Eirik counted them without meaning to.
Seven.
Dinner was the same gray mash as before.
This time, no one rushed.
They ate in silence, the sound of spoons scraping wood the only noise. Someone near the wall began to shake uncontrollably, teeth chattering hard enough to echo.
Eirik finished his bowl and set it aside.
The overseer returned once more.
He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the darkening sky.
"Tomorrow," he said, "the trial begins."
No elaboration.
The word hung in the air, heavy.
Eirik watched the man's face carefully. There was no satisfaction there. No cruelty, either. Just inevitability.
"What trial?" someone asked.
The overseer's gaze flicked toward the voice.
"You'll know," he said.
Then he left.
Night settled in fully.
The wind returned, stronger now, battering the Hall walls with low, persistent force. Snow piled against the structure, sealing cracks, muffling sound. Inside, the barracks felt smaller, the air heavier.
Eirik lay on his pallet, staring at the ceiling.
The stone above him was darker here, veins of mineral running through it like frozen lightning. Water seeped slowly from one crack, freezing as it fell, forming a thin icicle that grew longer with each passing hour.
His body hurt.
Not sharply. Not dramatically.
It hurt in the way that warned of limits being tested.
He breathed slowly, counting each inhale, each exhale.
Around him, sleep claimed the others unevenly. Some passed out immediately. Others tossed and muttered, dreams restless. One man wept quietly, the sound muffled by his arm.
Eirik closed his eyes.
Not to escape.
To conserve.
The pressure brushed his awareness again—lighter than before, almost hesitant.
Text appeared.
[RECORD LOGGED]
Event: Labor Assignment
Duration: Full Cycle
Observation: Subject adjusted output to environment.
Heaven Attention: None
It faded.
Eirik's expression did not change.
If this thing recorded adaptation, then recklessness would be invisible—or worse, punished later.
That was enough information for now.
Outside, the wind howled louder, sweeping snow across the Hall's face. Somewhere deep within the mountain, stone shifted with a low groan, a reminder of the weight pressing down on everything beneath it.
Eirik lay still.
Tomorrow would take more than endurance.
Tomorrow would decide who was worth keeping.
And the mountain, uncaring, would watch them try.