The gate slammed shut with the groan of poorly greased metal.

  The Prars rattled at his ankles—a metallic sound that echoed in the silence of the cell. Marc looked down. The chains were short enough to walk, but not to run. Long enough to work, but not to fight. Long enough to remind him with every step that freedom was a luxury no longer granted to him. Yet they weren’t tight enough to wound. Not yet. The guards knew that crippled slaves were worthless. Here, they broke spirits, not bodies. Not yet.

  The stench hit Marc before his eyes adjusted to the darkness: a mix of dried sweat, rotting straw, and that sour, almost metallic reek of bodies living too close together, never seeing the sun.

  The cell was vast, carved directly into the rock, with a ceiling so low he could have touched it by reaching up. Shapes stirred in the corners—figures wrapped in rags, some lying down, others crouched, all still as hunted animals who know a sudden movement might draw the predator’s attention.

  There were fifteen, maybe twenty men here. No. Not men. Karsaks. The word struck him, heavy and final, like a hammer on an anvil. Karsak. A term that didn’t describe what they were, but what they were worth. What was expected of them.

  Marc took a step back, pressing against the gate, and let his eyes adjust to the damp darkness. The walls oozed a warm moisture, and in places, the rock was streaked with black—dried blood, or perhaps the marks of those who, before him, had tried to count the days by scratching the stone with broken nails.

  At the back of the cell, near a bucket of murky water, an old man sat, his back hunched against the wall. He had only one eye. The other was a milky scar, glistening faintly in the dim light of a torch placed too high to illuminate anything but the ceiling. His hands, resting on his knees, were twisted by decades of labor—fingers gnarled like dried roots, swollen joints, grayish veins snaking beneath his skin like oxidized metal filaments.

  The old man didn’t move when Marc entered. He didn’t even look up. But once the guards’ footsteps had faded into the depths of the corridor, once the gate’s creak had vanished, he spoke.

  His voice was rough, worn, as if each word had to push through layers of dust before escaping. More a breath than speech.

  Then the old man lifted his head and studied him for a long time.

  His eye brightened.

  — Noo… he murmured first, in a guttural patois that belonged to no language Marc knew. The syllables grated, as if his throat were lined with gravel. Then, seeing Marc didn’t react, he repeated, slower, enunciating each sound: — New… here.

  Marc narrowed his eyes. The word "here" was familiar. A Terran word, or close to it. He ventured:

  — You… speak English?

  Davorin let out a dry, joyless laugh.

  — No. Not English. Korp. He spat on the ground. Knew a Terran… He hesitated, searching for the word. Delmont… Dead here.

  The old man finally lifted his good eye. It was a pale blue, almost milky, and in the uncertain light, his pupil seemed to dilate and contract in spasms, as if struggling to focus on anything—or anyone. He reached for the bucket, dipped a chipped clay bowl into it, and held it out to Marc. The water was tepid, cloudy, with a reddish sediment at the bottom.

  — Easy to spot Terrans. Solid. Dense, he said in broken Terran, before switching back to his native tongue, a guttural stream of syllables Marc didn’t understand. But the gesture was clear.

  Marc took the bowl.

  The water tasted of rust and salt, as if it had passed through layers of metal-rich earth before ending up here, in this chipped bucket, at the bottom of a cell where time no longer flowed—it accumulated, heavy and viscous, like the sediment at the bottom of the container.

  The gong struck like a hammer on an anvil.

  Marc jolted awake, muscles tense before his mind even registered. The air was thick, heavy, laden with humidity that clung to the skin like a second layer of sweat.

  He remained still, eyes half-closed, listening.

  Around him, bodies were already rising, silent, mechanical. No groans, no complaints. Just the scrape of chains on stone, the shuffle of bare feet on the floor.

  The light in the Pit wasn’t daylight. It came from torches planted in iron brazier, their bluish flames casting indigo shadows on the sweating walls. Marc tasted copper filling his mouth, as if he’d bitten into a coin.

  He sat up slowly, hands pressing against the cold floor. The other Karsaks—that’s what they were called, he remembered now—were already moving toward a central point in the room, where the torchlight converged. No one spoke. No one rushed. The discipline of a pack, or perhaps just exhaustion refined to pure instinct.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  An older man than the rest, his skin etched with gray scars like veins of metal, stood near the entrance. He wore only a rough cloth loincloth, and his raw iron collar—riveted to his neck—gleamed faintly in the flame’s glow. His eyes, almost translucent pale blue, swept the room before settling on Marc. A sharp nod. Up.

  Marc obeyed.

  He didn’t yet understand the rules of this place, but one thing was clear: here, those who hesitated died first. And this old man, with his shoulders stooped from years of labor and hands calloused like pumice stone, had survived. For now, that was all that mattered.

  He followed.

  The line was already formed.

  They moved in silence, shoulders slightly hunched, hands outstretched or clasped behind their backs according to their implicit rank. Marc instantly noted the hierarchy: the sturdiest, those whose muscles stood out despite obvious malnutrition, stood near the front. The weakest—those with sunken eyes, protruding ribs—were relegated to the back, where the guards would toss only the scraps.

  Two guards in red—soldiers, recognizable by their studded leather belts and tulwars slung low on their hips—supervised the distribution. One was young, almost a teenager, with tarnished tin stripes on his shoulders. The other, older, wore copper insignia, and his face was marked by a diagonal scar, as if someone had tried to split his skull with a single blade strike.

  Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. Their mere presence, hands always near their weapons, was enough to maintain order.

  Davorin—the old man had murmured his name earlier, his voice rough as gravel—stopped in front of a stone trough filled with a murky liquid.

  He dipped a clay bowl into the basin, filled it halfway, then stepped back to make room for the next. Marc did the same. The water was warm, almost hot. It tasted like the artesian wells he’d known in Africa, but sharper, as if iron filings had been dissolved in it. He drank anyway, in small sips, feeling the liquid warm his throat slightly before settling in his stomach like a heavy weight.

  Then came the food.

  The younger guard tossed a gray cake onto the edge of the trough. Davorin caught it before it fell into the water, broke it in half, and wordlessly handed a piece to Marc.

  Like ash bread.

  He’d seen it in the hands of other prisoners during the journey here. He’d smelled it—a kind of damp earth mixed with soot.

  He bit into it.

  The texture was dense, almost clay-like, and the taste… Shit. As if someone had mixed wood ash with flour, then baked it on a rusted plate. His stomach rebelled immediately, contracting in a dull cramp. He clenched his teeth, swallowed anyway. Hunger was an old acquaintance. He knew it would eventually overpower disgust.

  Around him, the others ate without expression, chewing slowly, as if each bite were just another chore to endure. No one complained. No one spat it out. Here, you took what you were given, or you died.

  Davorin watched Marc from the corner of his eye, as if waiting for a reaction. When none came, the old man gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if satisfied.

  You’re learning, the gesture seemed to say.

  The column set off with a clatter of chains, driven forward by the guards’ blows. Marc felt the weight of the chains drag at his ankles, each step a struggle against the metal’s inertia.

  Around him, the others moved in silence, heads bowed, shoulders hunched as if under an invisible burden. Davorin, however, walked upright, eyes fixed ahead, lips pressed tight. He didn’t look like a broken man. Just like a man who knew how to count his strength.

  — Listen, he murmured without turning his head, his voice rough as gravel. You’re new here, Davorin whispered in broken Terran. Me, I’m… old. Years spent here. Here, the guards don’t beat the old ones. We’re… too useful.

  Marc nodded. He understood. In the Legion, veterans had their privileges too. Not out of kindness. Out of pragmatism.

  — Here, you’re not… Davorin searched for the Terran word, then gave up. — Karsak. He tapped his Torq. — Not a man. Not a warrior. Just… He made a vague gesture. — Walking meat.

  Marc adjusted his grip on the iron bar they’d given him as a tool. The metal was warm, almost alive under his fingers. He didn’t reply. He listened. Davorin didn’t seem like the type to waste words.

  — One. Eat everything. Even if it tastes like shit. You eat, or you die.

  He shoved a piece into his mouth, chewing with methodical slowness.

  Marc looked at his own half-cake, still intact in his hand. The ash stuck to his fingers, black and greasy. He remembered the taste—that mineral bitterness.

  — Two. Sleep when you can, Davorin continued, swallowing.

  He nodded toward the guards watching them, leaning against the black stone pillars.

  He paused, spat on the ground.

  — Three, Davorin murmured. Stay silent.

  His fingers closed around the chain of his shackles—Prars, he had called them.

  — Four, Davorin resumed, starting to walk again, forcing Marc to quicken his pace to keep up. Stay small. Don’t draw attention.

  He lowered his voice another notch, so Marc had to strain to hear.

  — You. Too strong. And you look at people.

  He paused, stepping around a pile of rock debris.

  — Strength… draws… attention.

  He briefly raised his hand, showing the scars crisscrossing his forearm—pale marks, almost silvery, like strands of melted metal in the flesh.

  — See this? Fights to avoid…

  He lowered his hand. So you make yourself small. You hunch. You let others think you’re weak. Until you’re strong enough that it doesn’t matter anymore.

  Marc felt his shoulders tense. He had never been one to hide. In the Legion, he’d been taught to stand tall, to face the enemy. But here, the rules were different. Here, pride was a weakness. And weakness, a death sentence.

  — Fifth, Davorin concluded, stopping abruptly and forcing Marc to do the same. Count the debts.

  He finally turned fully toward him, his face hollowed by the torchlight dancing on the gallery walls.

  — Everything has a price here. Water. Food. A look too long. A word too many.

  A piercing scream suddenly echoed from the depths of the corridor, followed by a dull thud and a coarse laugh. Davorin didn’t flinch. He opened his hand, letting the fragments of stone fall to the ground, where they vanished among the dust.

  — Finally… the guards, Davorin murmured, spitting on the ground. Low-rank Vektors. The Pit is a prison without walls. They look the other way. If you… work well, you can… move around with me.