The Outside World.
Three words. That's all it took to grab Eighty-Seven by the throat and shake him like a dog with a rat. He'd been watching this broken-down man, hard not to, when someone limps into the black cells like he owns the place and the guards treat him like visiting royalty.
A dozen thoughts crashed through Eighty-Seven's skull at once, each one uglier than the last. Who was this scarred stranger? In six years of breaking his back in these mines, he'd never seen anyone so hideous. Yet here the man, shuffling about like he had every right, and a soldier following him around like a faithful hound.
The man looked like he'd been chewed up and spat out by something with very large teeth. Scars crisscrossed his face like a mad cartographer's map, and his clothes hung on his frame like funeral shrouds. Not the sort you'd expect to have influence in the Empire.
But one thing was certain-those weren't empty words. You didn't survive long in a place like this without learning to spot the difference between hope and horseshit.
This felt like hope. Dangerous, stupid, and probably fatal, but hope.
The smart thing would've been to tell him to piss off and crawl back to whatever hole he'd emerged from. The smart thing would've been to keep his head down, swing his pickaxe, and count the days until his body gave out. But as it said, Eighty-Seven had never been accused of being smart.
"What do you want me to do?"
Russ grinned, and it was the sort of grin that belonged on a skull. "Now there's a lad with sense!"
✧ ✧ ✧
A few days crawled by.
They let Eighty-Seven out of the black cells, which was something.
Thanks to whatever devil's bargain he'd struck with Russ, he'd even gotten proper food while he was rotting in there-bread that wasn't moldy, soup with actual meat floating in it.
Then he was back to the grind again.
Wake when the guards blew their horn, the sound echoing through the tunnels like a death rattle. Grab his pickaxe-worn smooth by countless hands-and his cart with its wobbly wheel that squeaked with every turn. Swing until his arms felt like dead meat.
Hauling ore until his back screamed in protest. Choke down whatever swill they called soup, sleeping on straw that smelled of rats and despair, and do it all again tomorrow. The sort of life that ground men down to nothing, grain by grain, like water on stone.
Russ came down to the mines now and then, his distinctive gait announcing his presence long before he came into view. Sometimes he'd chat with the miners, leaning against tunnel supports while men paused their work. Sometimes, with the guards, sharing words and occasional laughter that seemed out of place in this tomb of stone and suffering.
The man had a way about him, even looking like death warmed over. People listened when he spoke, drawn by something indefinable. Probably helped that he handed out food like a generous lord at feast time-dried meat, fresh bread, things that made men remember what it felt like to be human. Amazing how friendly folk got when their bellies weren't eating themselves.
Captain Sarkas, too, showed his face once a day, if at all. The captain's rounds were perfunctory at best, a quick march through the main tunnels before disappearing back to the surface.
Word among the miners was that he spent more time at the forges than down here. They say he is drawn to the rhythmic hammering and the heat of the flames. The dwarf slaves worked there, their small but powerful hands shaping metal with skills passed down through generations. The captain always seemed to find reasons to linger in those workshops, watching the female dwarves work with an attention that had nothing to do with administrative duty.
Still, the ore kept flowing upward in steady streams, so nobody in the imperial hierarchy gave a damn about where their officers spent their time.
Eighty-Seven kept his nose clean after he came out of the black cells. Not hard to do when every other miner crossed the tunnel to avoid him. Only the newcomers were stupid enough to try their luck. Even that appetite for confrontation disappeared quickly enough once they got a look at what was left of the five sorry souls that had picked a fight with eighty-seven.
Two were still limping around like broken toys, their faces carrying permanent reminders of poor judgment. The rest would be wearing their new scars until they died, which probably wouldn't be long in a place like this.
Eighty-seven was filling his cart when he heard the sound cutting through the general din of the mines.
-Click, step, drag!
That distinctive three-beat shuffle of a man with one good leg and an iron will.
Eighty-Seven didn't need to turn around to know who it was, but he did anyway. Even in a place that had forgotten most human courtesies, some habits died hard.
-Click, step, drag!
"Hard at work as usual," Russ wheezed, air whistling through the gaps where his teeth used to be. The words came out distorted, like wind through a broken flute. "Aren't you the diligent one?"
"Don't have the luxury of sitting around eating other people's bread," Eighty-Seven grunted, not looking up from his work. His pickaxe bit deep into a promising vein of ore, sending sparks dancing in the lamplight.
"Ho, ho! Jealous, are we?" That broken-glass laugh echoed off the tunnel walls. "Don't be, lad. Trust me-it's harder to sit still with nothing to do than it is to do something. Drives a man to madness, it does."
"Rich words, coming from someone who's never touched a pickaxe."
"True enough," Russ admitted without shame, his scarred face crinkling into something that might have been a smile on a healthier man. He reached into his coat-a garment that had seen better decades-and pulled out a small wooden box. The wood was worn smooth by handling, dark with age and oil from countless fingers. "Here. Consider this a gift."
Eighty-Seven set down his tool. He took the box, turning it over in his hands. It was lighter than expected, with strange symbols carved into its surface.
"What is it?"
"Insurance."
"Insurance?"
"Well, you agreed to our little arrangement, but I can't have you dying too easily." Russ leaned closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Call it…an insurance. Eat that when you're in very deep shit."
The box opened with a soft creak, revealing worn velvet that might once have been red. Inside sat a black pill, uneven and rough like it had been rolled by inexpert hands. The thing seemed to absorb light, making the shadows around it deeper. The stench that rose from it made Eighty-Seven's eyes water-a smell like rotting flowers mixed with burned copper and something else, something that made his stomach turn.
"What's it do?"
"Nothing good." Russ's grin widened, showing more gaps than teeth. "So best you stay out of trouble, eh? Consider it a last resort when all other options have run dry."
Eighty-Seven closed the box with a sharp snap and pocketed it. His trousers had more holes than cloth by now, patched and re-patched until they resembled a patchwork quilt, but the pocket was still intact.
"I will do what I promised. Hope you can keep your word too."
"I will," Russ said simply, and somehow the quiet certainty in his voice made it worse. Men who promised quietly were the ones who usually meant it, for better or worse.
Russ began his limping retreat, that familiar click, step, drag echoing off the tunnel walls. The sound grew fainter as he navigated around other miners and their carts, past the support beams that held back tons of rock and earth. Other workers paused in their labors to watch him pass, some nodding respectfully, others simply staring with hollow eyes.
Eighty-Seven stood there for a long moment, feeling the weight of the box in his pocket like a stone.
Then, he went back to his pickaxe and resumed the work. The rhythm was the same as always, but now each strike felt different. Like he was digging toward something instead of just digging his own grave.
Probably both, knowing his luck.
But for the first time in six years, Eighty-Seven found himself almost looking forward to finding out which.
─── ✦ ✦ ✦ ───