Khelt did not speak loudly.
It whispered.
And only those forced to live upon its wounds ever learned how to hear it.
The pits were quieter that cycle. Not safer. Not kinder. Just quieter, like a blade growing silent once it finds flesh. The machines still screamed when they cut too deep. The collars still hummed, restless and cruel, like caged insects. But beneath the metal, beneath the command, beneath the suffering itself… something else moved. Breath.
Lucas worked the lower cut today.
Deeper than before.
Down here, the air pressed against his lungs—thick and heavy. Each breath tasted of iron, ash, and something older. The stone walls closed in, carved into jagged terraces where slaves clung like insects, tearing at a world that did not want to be opened.
Lucas kept his movements precise.
Strike.
Pause.
Listen.
The stone answered. Not with sound. With vibration. With sparks.
He felt it through the handle of his tool. A faint tremor that lingered just a heartbeat too long after each impact. As if the rock remembered being struck. As if it resented the touch.
The first time, he blamed exhaustion.
The second time, coincidence.
The third time… the tool vibrated before it even touched the stone.
"No… this can't be…" he thought, eyes narrowing, hands gripping the handle tighter.
Lucas froze. No one else reacted.
Above him, guards paced the ledges, dark silhouettes against a bleached sky. Rifles hung loosely in their grips. Machines churned endlessly. Dust drifted like dead snow.
But in Lucas's hands, the tool trembled softly.
Like a held breath.
"Easy… steady," he told himself, forcing calm over the creeping uncertainty.
He loosened his grip. The vibration faded.
He did not look around.
He did not test it again.
On Khelt, curiosity was punished faster than defiance.
During the first break, the slaves gathered in the narrow strip of shade cast by a collapsed support beam. Water was passed—murky, warm, precious.
Whispers traveled with it.
"They… don't fight," one of the slaves murmured, his voice trembling like dust caught in a sunbeam.
"They don't have to," another said flatly, bitterness threading the words.
Lucas kept his head bowed, fingers tight around the container, pretending to drink slower than he needed.
"I heard they bury the angry ones…" another voice muttered, heavy with hopelessness.
Then someone laughed—too soft, too hollow—like a fragile spark struggling against the dark.
"Then why are we still here?" a question, hollow and masking dread.
No one answered.
The words settled in Lucas's chest like stones.
Bury the angry ones.
Not kill.
Not punish.
Bury.
Later, during the second rest cycle, Tarek spoke again.
They sat against the pit wall, knees drawn up, tools resting between them. The low hum of machinery filled the spaces where words could not linger.
Tarek did not look at Lucas when he spoke.
"There's a name for the place they don't want you to see," he said, his voice hushed but heavy with caution.
Lucas waited.
"The Temple of Still Water," he continued, speaking slowly, as if the syllables themselves might awaken something unseen.
The words carried weight. Too much weight for a name alone. As if the air itself recognized them.
"Temple?" Lucas asked, his voice tight, curiosity laced with unease.
"That's what people called it. Long before the Empire. Long before the Khar'Vael," Tarek replied, letting the memory hang like a warning. His thumb rubbed his palm repeatedly, a restless motion.
"It's built where the planet breathes the strongest. Where the stone hums even when untouched," he said, his voice heavy with reverence, almost fear.
"The stone hums everywhere," Lucas said, doubt edging his words, testing Tarek.
"No," Tarek snapped, eyes glinting beneath the grime. "This place listens. That place… answers." The weight of certainty pressed against Lucas like the pit walls themselves—cold and inescapable.
A chill slid through Lucas, slow and deliberate. It had nothing to do with the air.
"They say the monks don't mine. Don't build. Don't conquer," Tarek whispered, his voice soft but pointed, warning threaded in reverence.
"They keep things still," he said, each word lingering like a whispered mantra, heavy with meaning.
"What things?" Lucas asked, his voice low, edged with wonder and caution.
"Exactly," Tarek said, exhaling slowly, as if saying more could summon danger.
A sharp crack split the air.
A baton struck stone.
"Eyes down!" the guard barked, each word striking like a blade, pressing on every prisoner.
Conversation died instantly.
Tarek leaned back, face empty, hands steady.
Work resumed.
But something had shifted.
Lucas noticed it in fragments.
Dust near his boots stirred when he exhaled slowly, as if his breath carried weight.
When he calmed his thoughts, his tool cut cleaner, smoother, finding seams the stone seemed willing to open.
Once, frustration flared.
The stone resisted.
The pick bounced, numbing his hands to the bone.
The planet responded to intent.
Not strength. Not speed.
Intent.
At cycle's end, as the twin suns sank and the sky burned into dull embers, Lucas dared to glance toward the ridges.
Slowly. Carefully.
The ruins were barely visible. Broken arches. Leaning spires. Shapes hinting at purpose long abandoned.
And beyond them…
Figures. Less clear than before. Only silhouettes against the dying light.
Still. Watching.
A slave screamed.
A collar discharged.
Lucas dropped his gaze instantly, heart hammering. The warning was unmistakable.
"Do not look," he thought, his breath tight.
That night, exhaustion dragged him into sleep before fear could fully form.
Lucas stood among the ruins. Not broken. Not buried. Whole.
Stone pillars rose around him, etched with symbols that shifted when he tried to focus.
Water flowed through carved channels, perfectly still even as it moved.
And there was Rin.
"You always did stare too much," Rin laughed, warmth, relief, and nostalgia threading through the words.
"You're here," Lucas said, his voice tight, shock and relief intertwined.
"Of course I am," Rin replied, a grin soft, humor and confidence mingling with relief.
"Someone has to see this first," he added, laughter lingering like sunlight through ash.
Lucas reached for him.
The stone hummed. The world trembled.
He woke with his heart racing, the echo of laughter still warm.
The barracks lay silent. Too silent.
Bodies slept like the dead, exhaustion stealing even dreams. The stone walls radiated faint warmth. Shadows clung where light never fully reached.
Lucas sat up slowly. Something was wrong.
Near the entrance, where guards rarely looked directly, something rested on the ground.
A small bundle. Wrapped in pale cloth. No alarms. No shouts. The air felt… held.
Lucas waited. Counted his breaths. One. Two. Three. Nothing.
He moved.
Inside was food. Real food. Dense grain. Dried fruit. Water that didn't smell of rust or oil. Fresh. Still warm.
Lucas's hands shook.
He looked at the ground. Dust. Undisturbed. No footprints. No tracks. No sign anyone had been there at all.
The realization settled slowly, heavy and undeniable.
They were close. Not hiding. Watching. Choosing.
As Lucas ate in silence, heart pounding, he understood something the pits could never teach:
Khelt did not belong to the Khar'Vael.
And whatever lived among its ruins… had begun to notice him.