Chapter 13 - Violator

  Elrin stood frozen, blinking.

  His mind lagged behind what his eyes were seeing. Tova was no longer standing casually at his side. His stance had sunk low, legs spread and rooted, spine straight, weight balanced like a drawn bow. In his hands was a spear that hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago.

  Or maybe it had. Elrin couldn’t tell. It all happened in the blink of an eye.

  Dravan stood a few feet away, two fingers pinching the spear’s edge. The point hovered just short of his throat. His hand looked larger than before, and the nails longer.

  He was smiling.

  “Go back,” Tova said calmly, eyes fixed on Dravan. “Tell them to give up. I’m not leaving.”

  “Afraid I can’t,” Dravan replied. His voice was light, almost amused.

  They remained still for a long moment.

  “Then step aside,” Tova said.

  Dravan opened his mouth to say something—

  His nose twitched, catching a scent only he could smell. He suddenly released the spearhead, and turned away.

  Elrin watched Tova’s eyes shift to Dravan’s exposed neck. The calculation was clear, one thrust from behind, and it would be over. The moment stretched. Then Tova’s jaw tightened as he let go of his spear and it vanished from his hand.

  Footsteps echoed down the tunnel. Metal clinked. Voices barked orders. Guards rounded the corner, swords half drawn. “What was that noise?” one of them snapped.

  Dravan pointed down a side tunnel. “Came from there.”

  The guards didn’t question him. They rushed past, boots pounding stone. The tunnel swallowed them.

  When the echoes faded, Dravan began walking away. “We’ll speak again,” he said without turning, “…Cavatto Zennod.”

  The name fell like a hammer. Elrin noticed Tova’s fists clench tightly.

  “Tova,” muttered Elrin. “What—”

  “Not now, Elrin,” said Tova with finality, then walked away.

  Elrin woke to Lancelot’s nails deep in his back. He grunted and pushed the cat away.

  The bell rang moments later, and the boy pushed himself upright, and stretched.

  Healed, yet again.

  The relief lasted only a breath as the relentless hunger clawed back to the surface. It gnawed at him constantly, an aching void deep in his chest that food couldn’t fill and sleep couldn’t quiet. Each time he woke, it had grown.

  He healed. He grew stronger, but something inside him grew thinner each time.

  Work was the only thing that kept his mind off it.

  Elrin pulled on his tunic and stepped outside. His first instinct was to clamp a hand over his shoulder. He smeared more soot across his skin, rubbing it in until nothing could be seen beneath it.

  Dravan wasn’t waiting for him outside.

  The workers were already moving, bodies drifting toward the tunnels. Elrin paused, peering into Dravan’s tent.

  Empty.

  He frowned and headed down the tunnel. Miners worked in cramped alcoves on either side, picks ringing against stone, their silhouettes hunched and weary in the torchlight.

  Dravan was already there, ankle deep in shattered stone. His pick rose and fell with brutal force—each strike a controlled explosion. Rock burst apart under the blows. Dust billowed. He didn’t slow, didn’t pause, just swung again and again like he was trying to kill the mountain itself.

  “Hey,” Elrin called.

  No response.

  “Hey!” louder now.

  “I heard you,” Dravan said without looking back.

  “Then don’t ignore me.”

  Dravan’s pick struck stone again. “Ever heard of not wanting to talk?”

  “What was that about yesterday?”

  Dravan stopped. He turned slowly, eyes hard. “None of your business, lad.” His gaze flicked briefly down the tunnel. “Your best chance is to keep your head low, stay out of everyone’s affairs, and you might survive long enough in this pit.”

  “I said I’m not staying here,” Elrin snapped. “I’m coming with you.”

  Dravan turned back to the wall. The pick came down harder. “No you’re not. And I suggest you start shoveling,” he answered quietly. “You have been watched since the moment you arrived.”

  Elrin turned.

  Erhart stood at the edge of the lane, hands clasped behind his back, posture loose. His mustache twitched as a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  Waiting.

  Heat rose in Elrin’s chest. His jaw clenched, nails biting into his palms. He forced a breath through his nose and bent to his work.

  Don’t waste this opportunity, slithered a whisper through his ears like oil.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Shut up!” shouted Elrin.

  Dravan’s pick stopped mid-swing. He turned and stared at the boy. “Losing your mind there, lad?”

  Elrin’s face burned. He grabbed the shovel without answering and drove it into the stone, harder than necessary. The shovel had grown lighter with each passing day. Now he knew the trick: don’t rush, don’t strain. Find the rhythm and maintain it. At this pace, the quota was almost easy. He filled the first cart without breaking a sweat. An empty one appeared beside him moments later.

  A flicker of anticipation rose in him. Finally, he could ask Tova about last night. But the figure waiting at the cart wasn’t Tova. It was another boy, smaller and younger, shoulders hunched.

  “Hey,” Elrin muttered. “Where’s Tova?”

  The boy glanced past him, toward Erhart, then back down. “He switched with me,” he said quickly, hauling the full cart away.

  Elrin exhaled.

  I see….

  The rhythm returned.

  Stone split. Ore scraped. Sweat trickled into his eyes. Guards paced the outer lanes, boots grinding slow circles into the rock.

  Elrin glanced behind him. Erhart was gone.

  Good, I can stretch a little—

  Loud hurried footsteps echoed behind him.

  Three guards rushed into the tunnel. Elrin expected them to pass by—just another round of checking. But they stopped. Right in front of him.

  “Boy,” said the one in the center. “You’re coming with us.”

  Elrin froze. “I’m just taking a short break.” He picked up his shovel. “I’m getting back to work right now.”

  Hands seized Elrin’s tunic.

  “Hey!” Elrin shouted as they dragged him back. “I’m halfway through my quota! I’ll finish it—I swear!”

  “Quiet,” one of the guards barked.

  The other workers kept their heads down, picks still striking stone in steady rhythm. But eyes flickered his way, quick, furtive glances over shoulders. Elrin saw recognition in those looks, maybe even sympathy. But their hands never stopped moving. Nobody moved to help. Nobody dared. It would only make things worse, for him, for them, for everyone who breathed wrong in a guard’s presence.

  The tunnel swallowed the sound of his protest as they hauled him away.

  Elrin was dragged through tunnels he’d never seen before. Narrow and dark. The walls pressed close on either side. The air was thick with old sweat and iron, growing heavier with each step. No torches here. Just darkness, the sound of boots on stone and his own ragged breathing.

  They reached a metal door, already opened.

  They threw him inside. A space carved straight from stone—barely a room, just a hollow gouged into rock like a wound. The walls wet with moisture. The floor was uneven, scattered with straw that reeked of piss and blood. No furnishings. No comfort. No light except the single torch at the entrance, its flame casting long shadows that writhed across the walls.

  “What’s going on?” Elrin snapped, scrambling to his feet. “I told you—I’ll finish my quota—”

  “Strong boy,” came a voice from behind him.

  Elrin turned.

  Erhart stood in the doorway.

  He held Lancelot by the scruff of his neck. The cat hung there, every muscle locked in terror. Fur bristling. Tail clamped between its legs. Eyes wide and wild, but it didn’t fight, didn’t squirm—just hung there, paralyzed.

  “Wha—”

  “Hold him down,” Erhart said calmly.

  The guards moved as one.

  Elrin was slammed into the stone. Something cracked in his ribs, sharp and painful. His breath burst out of him in a broken gasp as hands pinned his shoulders and legs.

  He thrashed.

  A boot came down hard against his side.

  “Is this creature yours, boy?” Erhart asked.

  Elrin snarled and twisted, teeth bared. A fist struck the side of his head, white light flashing behind his eyes. He tasted blood—but still, he said nothing.

  Erhart watched him for a moment, head tilted. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll take your silence as refusal.” He turned to a guard standing idly. “Dispose of it.”

  “No!” Elrin shouted, the word tearing out of his throat. “The cat’s mine!”

  Erhart paused. “Oh,” he said softly. “Is it now?”

  “Yes,” Elrin gasped, straining against the hands pinning him. “Leave him out of it—I’ll take the punishment!”

  Erhart regarded him with mild curiosity. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” he said. “You’ve violated two rules.” He gestured lazily with the hand holding the cat. “Harboring a live creature in my mine and lying to the Commandant.”

  He turned and passed Lancelot to another guard.

  “Mace.” The weapon was placed into Erhart’s waiting hand. “Twenty hits is standard.” He stopped in front of Elrin. “But you recovered quite well last time, didn’t you?” His eye narrowed. “I bet you can take more.” Erhart slipped his hand into his pocket and fished out a pair of gloves. “Hold him tight.”

  The first blow shattered Elrin’s breath. The second cracked something deeper. Pain exploded through him—white-hot, absolute, swallowing thought. He screamed once, the sound tearing from his throat, then couldn’t anymore. His lungs wouldn’t work.

  Then again.

  And again.

  Erhart didn’t rush. He measured each strike.

  Lancelot hissed and shrieked, struggling in the guard’s grip.

  “Keep it quiet!” Erhart barked, composure cracking.

  The guard slammed Lancelot against the stone. The impact made a sickening thud.

  “No!” Elrin tried to shout, but only a wet gasp escaped.

  The mace rose again.

  Lancelot twisted, writhing—then sunk his teeth into the guard’s hand. The guard screamed as claws raked across his face, tearing deep. The cat wrenched free and launched itself forward, a black blur of fur and fury.

  Straight at Erhart’s throat—

  Too slow.

  Erhart turned.

  The mace caught Lancelot mid-leap with a brutal crack. His small body folded around the strike, but even falling, claws extended. One caught Erhart’s face, dragging down in a wet, tearing line.

  Blood poured from his ruined eye. Erhart staggered back, hand flying to his face.

  Lancelot flew across the room and slammed against the wall. The cat collapsed onto its trembling legs and let out a broken, keening wail.

  Erhart straightened, unbothered by the blood streaming down his face. His smile was gone. “Hold the boy,” he said, voice barely above a whisper as he began approaching Lancelot.

  The cat limped to the corner, body hunched and trembling, back pressed against stone. Its eyes were wild, enormous in the dim light.

  Erhart took another step. Raised the mace.

  Then Elrin felt it.

  A pressure building behind his ribs. In his veins. The wrath rising like a tide—slowly at first, then faster. Surging. Higher and higher. Filling him, drowning thought, drowning fear, drowning everything but the singular, burning need to end them all.

  A crackling voice whispered into his ears: “Will you stand and watch as death consumes everything around you?”

  Elrin couldn’t stop it…he didn’t want to.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  The sound of bodies hitting stone.

  Erhart turned, mace gripped tight in his hand.

  The two guards lay on the floor, limp. Thin red lines across their throats, blood pooling beneath them.

  The room seemed darker, the shadows deeper.

  Erhart’s remaining eye shifted toward a figure hunched over one of the fallen. “Well, well,” he rasped softly, a satisfied smile spread across his lips.

  Elrin turned toward him, his eyes black as the void.

  business. Fight incoming next chapter, stay tuned!