Chapter 11 - The Weight of Eyes

  Elrin wished he could wake from this nightmare. He would have welcomed the pain he’d known in Heligsol in a heartbeat, the bullies, the shoving, the humiliation, if it meant escape. But the pain screaming across his body was real. Too real.

  His bones rattled as he forced himself onto his knees. The world swam, edges blurring. He found the shovel, closed his fingers around it, and stood. Each bend sent fire through his spine. Each lift felt like something was tearing loose.

  But the boy endured.

  Not through submission, but through something hotter, something feral, burning behind his eyes. He did not pray. He did not beg. He only promised himself this: if that mustached guard touched him again, he’d make him bleed for it.

  And let them beat me to death, at least I’ll die with his blood in my teeth.

  The thought did not frighten him, not anymore. With a bitter clarity, Elrin understood that whatever noble ideas he once carried had been beaten out of him.

  His body barely held together. Still, he worked. Shovel after shovel. Cart after cart.

  When the last ore slid into place, relief hit him so hard his fingers went slack. The shovel slipped from his hand. His legs folded beneath him and he struck the stone floor.

  Hunger gnawed at his gut, but exhaustion drowned it out. His eyelids burned, heavy and desperate.

  He tried standing up, but his legs refused to answer him. After a few failed attempts, he dropped back down and lay there, coughing blood breathing through clenched teeth.

  Then, he crawled.

  Stone scraped his palms raw, dust and soot filled his nose as he dragged himself across the floor.

  Elrin reached the tents, but they were quiet, no one in sight.

  He crawled to his own tent and pulled himself inside, staining the straw, the cloth, and everything he touched. He collapsed onto the bedding without care.

  Something brushed against his ankle.

  Elrin did not look.

  Sleep took him.

  The ringing of the bell woke the boy.

  For a moment, he lay still, waiting for pain to find him again. Waiting for the fire in his back, the splitting ache in his spine, the tight, burning pull of torn muscle.

  It didn’t come. Confusion stirred before fear did. Elrin shifted slightly and stopped. The movement didn’t tear anything open. It felt…easy.

  The tent was dim, lit only by the dull glow seeping in from the torches outside. Straw crinkled beneath him as he pushed himself upright.

  He swallowed and rolled his shoulders—

  Nothing.

  No white flare of pain and no breath stolen from his lungs. Slowly, deliberately, Elrin reached back. His fingers brushed over his tunic, and then skin.

  Smooth.

  He pressed harder, expecting tenderness, bruising or scabs. It was soft…new. Even the brand on his shoulder didn’t ache.

  The boy craned his neck and twisted to see his shoulder, the M burned into his skin. But he found neither the mark nor any scar. Memories came back in fragments: the carriage, his ankle wounds sealing themselves, his tongue mending.

  Outside, curses muttered, feet shuffled and someone coughed violently. The mine was waking up.

  Elrin sat there, marveling at the absurdity of it all. Last night he'd been inches from death. Now, it seemed like a bad dream. His body heals…unnaturally fast.

  That explains how I woke up in that dungeon, unscathed.

  The how of it still remained a great mystery, but for some reason, it always happened after a long, deep sleep. If only he could talk directly to Mardukai and demand answers.

  Lancelot stirred beside him, lifting his head. The cat stretched, utterly unconcerned, and butted his skull against Elrin’s ribs.

  The boy pulled his sleeveless tunic back into place as Rinkler’s voice echoed in his mind: No matter what happens, no matter who asks.

  Never reveal your ability.

  He stood up. The black cat took Elrin’s warm spot on the straw mat and made itself comfortable. Elrin opened the curtains and stepped out, keeping a palm over his now unmarked shoulder. The tunnels were already stirring. Men moved past in loose lines, tools clinking, feet dragging.

  Dravan was waiting a few paces away, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He straightened the moment Elrin emerged. “Not like that,” he said quietly.

  Elrin stiffened. “Not like what?”

  Dravan stepped closer. He glanced around once, fast and sharp, then his fingers smeared soot from the wall. “Move your hand.”

  The boy hesitated for a moment before dropping his hand. His shoulder was smooth, unblemished.

  Dravan dragged his sooted fingers across Elrin’s shoulder in a rough, uneven stroke. Blackened skin, filthy and ordinary again. “Rub it in,” Dravan muttered. “Make it ugly.”

  Elrin did as told. “You don’t seem surprised,” he whispered.

  “I checked on you last night—it was halfway gone.” Dravan went on, low enough that the words barely carried. “You heal again like that, where eyes can see, you’ll be sent straight to Gunwald.”

  Elrin’s mouth went dry.

  Dravan stepped back, arms crossing again. “From now on, you bleed. You limp. You ache. Understand?”

  Elrin nodded.

  Dravan turned and started walking. “Soot fades,” he added. “Reapply it often.” He moved off into the crowd and the boy followed.

  “Dravan,” called Elrin behind him.

  “What?” he answered without turning.

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  “Thanks.”

  “They don’t replace Muckers around here. I'd be stuck doing double work.”

  They arrived before their mining crevice.

  Heat pressed in from every side, heavier now that the forges were awake. The clang of metal, the scrape of stone, the low, constant coughs of men filled the air.

  Dravan raised his pickaxe and began chipping away at the wall. Elrin took his place right behind him and shoveled into the cart.

  This is…easier.

  It wasn’t light, but the resistance was less. His arms did not shake immediately. His spine did not scream the instant he bent. He shoved the blade into the ore. The motion flowed smoother. His shoulders obeyed and his grip held tighter. He worked faster.

  Stone filled the cart. The rhythm came back quicker than yesterday. His muscles burned, but not like before. The pain dulled into something he could push through.

  For a moment, Elrin believed.

  Then the cart filled. He stood there, staring at it, panting. One cart. Yesterday, this had nearly killed him. Today, it had only almost done so. He swallowed and kept going.

  By midday, sweat soaked him through. His arms trembled again, his back tightened, and each lift stole more breath than the last. When the bell rang, Elrin stood over a half-filled cart, chest heaving.

  He had misjudged—again.

  A shadow fell across the stone. “You’re wasting effort,” a voice said.

  Elrin didn’t look up. “I know.”

  “No,” the boy corrected calmly. “You don’t.”

  Elrin glanced sideways.

  Tova stood beside him. “Tilt the blade,” he said. “Not straight. You’re fighting the stone.”

  Elrin frowned. “That’s how the others do it.”

  “You’re not like the others—you’re weak.”

  Without waiting for permission, Tova stepped in, adjusted Elrin’s grip with two quick taps, then nudged his stance with the toe of his boot.

  “Leverage,” he murmured with a demonstrative swing. “Use your thigh for leverage. Don’t lift it.”

  Elrin copied him. The shovel slid in deeper.

  He blinked.

  Again.

  The ore gave way with less resistance. The movement felt…cleaner, efficient. Still brutal—but no longer clumsy. His cart filled faster.

  Tova stepped back immediately, eyes already elsewhere.

  “Don’t rush,” he added. “Steady work beats strength.”

  Elrin hesitated. “Why are you—”

  Tova had already melted back into the line of workers, indistinguishable once more.

  Odd boy…perhaps only the odd ones survive here.

  Elrin returned to the shovel. His arms burned and his lungs begged for air. But this time, when the bell rang twice, his cart was nearly full. Nearly.

  He wasn’t safe. But for the first time since entering the mine, he was close.

  The guard made the rounds, tapping, tapping.

  Elrin didn’t stop. He shoveled as his legs trembled, as his biceps tore. He shoveled ceaselessly.

  Tap.

  Shovel.

  Tap.

  Shovel.

  The guard stood right in front of Elrin, peering into the cart just as Elrin threw in the last shoveful.

  Tap.

  The guard continued on.

  Relief crashed through him and he dropped to his knees, lungs burning, heaving. The workers gathered their things and headed out to the dining hall. Leaving Elrin on his knees and hands, sweat trickling down his face. He slowly pushed himself up and stood, trembling.

  He smeared fresh soot across his shoulder then followed. The dining hall was a long way past the tents, through the main hall where sir Aldwin had marked them, then down a tunnel where a bright light shone through.

  The hall was loud. That was the first thing Elrin noticed as he stepped inside. It was packed—men pressed shoulder to shoulder.

  Elrin stood still, adjusting to the echoing roar. Not shouting—nothing that wild—but voices layered over one another, laughter scraping rough throats, the clatter of tin bowls and wooden benches. Warmth pressed against him, thick with fresh bread, sweet spices, and malty ale. For a moment, it was disorienting.

  These were the same men who’d stared at stone earlier. The same ones who’d flinched at raised voices. The same bodies that had moved like ghosts through the tunnels.

  But here…they smiled.

  Some leaned close together, shoulders touching. Others traded jokes in low murmurs, lips twitching, eyes bright with something dangerously close to relief. A few even laughed outright—short, sharp bursts, like stolen air.

  In any other circumstance, Elrin would've thought these men were living their happiest lives. But they were slaves, taken from families they will never see again.

  At the counter, men served themselves unlimited portions—every boy's dream at Helligsol. Elrin filled his bowl with barley soup and brown bread, then limped around to find himself a seat. His arms ached just holding the bowl—a deep, twisting pain like knives in muscle.

  Toward the end of the hall, Dravan ate while standing. His eyes swept the room, jumping from face to face. Two tables to his right, sat Tova, his back against the wall.

  Elrin walked up to the boy.

  Tova sat hunched over a bowl, eating slowly, methodically. His posture hadn’t changed, but something else had. Here, in the warmth and noise, he looked almost…ordinary. Just another boy with dirt under his nails and a face too tired for his age.

  “Mind if I eat with you?” asked Elrin.

  Tova didn’t reply.

  Elrin took it as a yes and slid onto the bench across from him.

  Up close, he saw it more clearly. The sharpness in Tova’s eyes was still present—but it was quieter here, folded inward like a blade kept sheathed.

  “This place feels wrong,” Elrin said under his breath.

  Tova didn’t look up. “It’s meant to.” He tore a chunk of bread, dipped it into his bowl, and chewed before continuing. “They let them feel human here,” he said. “Enough to remember.”

  Elrin watched a man a few seats down throw his head back laughing. His cheeks were hollow, his wrists thin, but his eyes were alive.

  “For what?” Elrin asked.

  “It’ll hurt more when they take it away,” said Tova.

  Elrin frowned. “You’re saying this is on purpose?”

  Tova finally looked at him.

  “Everything is.” He nodded toward the hall. “Starve us completely and men break too fast. They stop caring if they live or die.” He swallowed another mouthful. “Keeps them hoping, talking—blind to the trap.”

  Elrin glanced around again.

  The laughter didn't feel real anymore. Dark circles stood out beneath their eyes, wrinkles deeper than before.

  “And you?” Elrin asked quietly. “You don’t seem happier.”

  Tova ignored the question. “You healed fast,” he said instead.

  Elrin stiffened.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t care.”

  Elrin glanced over himself, afraid that something gave him off. “How?” he muttered under his breath.

  “I felt it.”

  “Felt what?”

  Tova remained quiet for a long moment, his gaze on his food. “There’s something inside you,” he said softly. “Something…hungry.”

  Elrin’s grip tightened on his bowl.

  “That’s why I helped you,” Tova continued, voice low enough that it vanished into the noise. “You’re no ordinary boy.”

  Elrin didn’t know what to say.

  A bell rang twice, sharp and clean.

  The noise in the hall dulled instantly. Men stood, bowls scraped empty, benches shoved back into place with practiced speed. The warmth began to drain as quickly as it had arrived. As Elrin rose, he adjusted his tunic and glanced over his shoulder, making sure it’s still covered in dirt.

  “Careful,” Tova murmured. “You’re drawing attention to it.”

  Elrin forced his gaze away.

  They moved toward the exit with the others. The tunnel beyond yawned dark and waiting.

  Just before Elrin stepped through—

  “Hey.”

  A guard’s voice.

  Elrin froze.

  The guard stood near the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed—not angry, but curious. His gaze lingered on Elrin’s shoulder, where soot smeared his skin darker than the rest.

  “You,” the guard said. “Hold up.”

  The flow of bodies parted around them. Elrin turned slowly.

  “Never seen you around here before—what’s your section?” the guard asked.

  Tova’s left foot slid forward and his knees bent slightly, ready.

  Elrin swallowed. “I’m in the Mine—I’m a Mucker.”

  The guard took a step closer. “Show me your mark.”