The Shattered Crowns

The ceiling above rumbled faintly, a sound that had become so common in the mines of Koona it no longer startled Mirak. He glanced at the walls, where jagged cracks spread like veins through the stone. The dust was thick today, heavier than usual, coating everything in the dim, flickering light of the torches. It was a suffocating presence, clinging to the back of his throat, crawling into his lungs, and leaving a metallic tang on his tongue. He coughed, the sound swallowed up by the cavernous space around him.

Dust. It was inescapable. It was a constant, a parasite that leached the life out of everything it touched. Down in these mines, the dust settled on skin, burrowed under fingernails, and seeped into the porous fabric of the Publici's tattered clothes. It was in their hair, turning once-vivid shades into muted grays. Even their food—the meager scraps they were given—tasted of it. It mingled with the stench of sweat and damp stone, creating an oppressive atmosphere that weighed heavy on the soul.

Mirak adjusted his grip on his pickaxe, its handle worn smooth by years of use. The weight of it pulled awkwardly at his single hand, and his muscles burned with every step. The Publici around him moved like ghosts, their chains rattling softly as they trudged deeper into the tunnels. No one spoke. The air here was too thick, too heavy, and words would only waste what little energy they had left.

The torchlight flickered as the group entered a large cavern. The ceiling stretched high above them, almost out of sight, and resin deposits gleamed like distant stars embedded in the rock. The sight of those blue flecks might have been beautiful if it weren't for the cruel reality they represented. Resin—the lifeblood of Koona's economy, the source of its power and wealth—was the reason they were here. It was the reason they were shackled, their bodies broken under the relentless grind of labor.

Mirak stopped at the edge of the cavern and hefted his pickaxe. He swung it at an outcrop of resin, the metal head clanging uselessly against the unyielding surface. His single arm wasn't strong enough to deliver the force needed to dislodge a proper shard. The vibrations from the impact rattled his bones, traveling up his arm and into his shoulder. He adjusted his grip and swung again, gritting his teeth as the pickaxe glanced off the deposit.

The resin was as hard as iron, its crystalline structure resistant to all but the most determined strikes. Mining it was a slow, grueling process. It required precision as much as strength—too much force in the wrong spot could shatter the resin into useless fragments, wasting hours of work. Too little force, and it wouldn't budge at all.

Mirak swung again, and again, his arm trembling with the effort. Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the dust to form streaks of grime on his face. He could feel the resin pulling at him, its presence like a low hum at the edges of his mind. If he focused too hard on it, the pull grew stronger, a tantalizing whisper that promised power if only he dared to reach for it. But Mirak held back. He'd seen what happened to those who tried to draw on Atta in the mines. The Watcher's Saki were ever vigilant, their eyes sharp and unyielding. They would kill him without hesitation if they suspected he was using Atta.

"Any luck with the shards, Mirak?" a voice called out behind him.

Mirak paused and glanced over his shoulder. Lock was standing a few feet away, leaning casually on his pickaxe. Despite the grime and exhaustion etched into his features, there was an easy grin on his face. His mismatched eyes—one stormy gray, the other vivid jade—gleamed with a mischievous light. He was taller and broader than Mirak, his body hardened by years of labor. The golden hue of his shackles marked him as different, his bonds lighter than Mirak's heavy silver ones.

"None," Mirak replied, his voice hoarse from the dust. "And you?"

Lock shrugged, running a hand through his dusty blonde hair. "Not much better. You'd think they'd give us proper tools if they wanted this stuff mined faster."

Mirak let out a bitter laugh. "If they gave us proper tools, they'd have to spend more resin. You know how they are."

Lock nodded, his grin fading slightly. He hefted his pickaxe and swung it at a nearby deposit, chipping away small flecks of resin. The sound echoed through the cavern, mingling with the steady rhythm of other miners at work.

"It makes you want to get out of here, doesn't it?" Lock said after a moment, his voice low enough that only Mirak could hear.

Mirak stopped swinging and turned to him. "And go where? The Watcher's personal Saki would string us up on the fourth wall before we made it ten paces."

Lock's grin returned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "A man can dream, can't he?"

Mirak shook his head and resumed his work, the pickaxe clanging against the resin. Lock's optimism—or was it sarcasm?—was both infuriating and oddly comforting. Mirak couldn't afford to dream, not here. Survival was all that mattered.

The hours dragged on as the Publici worked, their bodies moving in a relentless rhythm. Mirak's arm ached with every swing, his muscles screaming for relief. The air grew heavier with dust, each breath a struggle. Resin shards clattered into collection bins, their faint blue glow a mocking reminder of the wealth they would never touch.

Occasionally, a larger shard would break free, drawing murmurs of excitement from the workers. The Watcher and his Saki would approach, their pristine robes and armor a stark contrast to the grime-covered Publici. The Watcher would inspect the shard, his expression one of detached curiosity, as if the labor that had produced it was beneath his notice.

Mirak glanced at the Watcher now, his eyes narrowing as he watched the man's imperious posture. The Watcher spoke in Kavish, his words clipped and commanding. Mirak translated without emotion, his voice steady as he relayed the orders to the other miners.

"The Watcher says to keep working. Focus on the veins."

The Publici obeyed without question, their movements mechanical. They were used to this. Defiance was a luxury none of them could afford.

As the day wore on, the cavern grew quieter. The veins of resin were nearly exhausted, the deposits shrinking with each swing of the pickaxes. Mirak's bin was only half full, its contents a pitiful collection of small shards and flecks. He clenched his jaw and swung again, the pickaxe scraping against the rock. A larger shard broke free, and he quickly palmed it, slipping it into the hidden pocket in his clothes.

Lock noticed the movement and smirked. "Careful, Mirak. If the Saki catch you, they'll do more than whip you."

Mirak didn't respond, his focus returning to the resin. The shard in his pocket hummed faintly against his skin, a soothing counterpoint to the constant ache in his arm.

Finally, the Watcher called for the day's work to end. His voice echoed through the cavern, sharp and authoritative. Mirak translated the command, and the Publici began to gather their tools and bins. They moved as one, their chains clinking in unison as they trudged back toward the surface.

The climb was slow and grueling, each step a test of endurance. The path was uneven, the jagged rocks cutting into their bare feet. The air grew damp as they ascended, the faint smell of rain in the distance. Mirak pinched his nose, the moisture in the air a warning of the storms to come.

"It's going to rain," Lock muttered, his voice barely audible.

Mirak nodded. "If the tunnels flood, we'll be stuck here for days."

Lock didn't respond. The possibility of being trapped underground wasn't something any of them wanted to dwell on.

When they finally emerged into the open air, Mirak squinted against the fading light. The fourth district loomed around them, its towering spires a harsh reminder of their place in the world. The libraries of Koona stood tall and unyielding, their intricate architecture a stark contrast to the crude mining camp. To be so close to such knowledge, yet so far...

The Publici filed into the courtyard, their chains clinking softly as they dumped their resin into the collection bins. A Saki stood nearby, his wings folded neatly as he watched them with a sneer. His gaze lingered on Mirak, his expression twisted with disdain.

"Still alive, cripple?" the Saki sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.

Mirak clenched his jaw but said nothing. He felt Lock's hand on his shoulder, a silent warning to stay quiet.

The Saki's sneer deepened. "That's what I thought."

Mirak turned away, his muscles tensed as he joined the other Publici around the fire. The flames crackled softly, their warmth a welcome relief from the chill that seeped into his bones.

Lock sat beside him, his mismatched eyes glinting in the firelight. "You need to keep your head down, Mirak. One of these days, your mouth is going to get you killed."

Mirak let out a bitter laugh. "Maybe. But not today."

Lock shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're a stubborn bastard, you know that?"

Mirak didn't respond. He stared into the flames, the shard of resin in his pocket a faint weight against his side. The pull of the Atta was stronger now, its hum a constant presence at the edge of his mind.

The fire's flickering warmth was fleeting, barely enough to combat the creeping chill of the Lunar Storms. Mirak tightened the threadbare blanket around his shoulders, his fingers brushing over the cold, worn edges of his silver shackles. The runic etchings along the metal seemed to shimmer faintly, almost alive in the light of Temperance's red star overhead. They were a grim reminder that freedom was a distant dream, a whispered possibility always snatched away by the sharp edge of reality.

Lock leaned back against a nearby rock, his mismatched eyes watching Mirak with an almost casual curiosity. "You've been quiet," he said, breaking the silence. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face, making him look older than his years. "That's not like you. Got something on your mind?"

Mirak didn't look at him. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the shard of resin he had hidden in his pocket. He could feel its faint hum against his side, the pull of Atta like a song that only he could hear. It was tempting, so tempting, to reach for it again. To let the Atta flow through him, to shape it into something—anything—that could break the chains holding him here. But the risk was too great. The Saki would notice, and the punishment for such defiance would be brutal and final.

"I'm just tired," Mirak said finally, his voice low and rough. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.

Lock snorted, leaning forward to poke at the fire with a stick. "We're all tired, Mirak. That's life down here. You've got to keep your head straight, though. You start thinking too much, and it'll eat you alive."

Mirak glanced at him, his expression unreadable. Lock had a way of speaking that made him sound like he had everything figured out, like he knew how to survive in this hellhole without letting it break him. But Mirak wasn't so sure. There was something in Lock's eyes, a flicker of desperation that betrayed the calm façade he tried so hard to maintain.

The sound of chains clinking drew Mirak's attention to the group of Publici huddled around another fire a few yards away. They were murmuring quietly, their voices barely audible over the howling winds of the Lunar Storms. One of them, a young woman with rust-colored hair, was gesturing animatedly, her hands moving in sharp, precise motions.

"More stories of curses in the mines?" Mirak asked, his tone laced with skepticism. He had heard it all before—the whispers of ancient horrors lurking in the depths, waiting to claim the lives of anyone foolish enough to venture too far. Superstition was as much a part of life in the mines as the dust and the chains.

Lock followed his gaze and shrugged. "Probably. People need something to believe in, don't they? Even if it's just ghost stories."

Mirak didn't respond. He turned his attention back to the fire, the heat barely penetrating the damp chill that clung to his skin. The resin shard in his pocket felt heavier now, as if it were weighing him down. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the pull of the Atta.

The older Publici, the one who had sold Lock the dull knife earlier, shuffled over to their fire and sat down heavily on a nearby rock. His weathered face was etched with lines, each one a testament to the years he had spent in the mines. He coughed harshly, a wet, rattling sound that made Mirak wince.

"You're all fools if you think those stories aren't true," the old man said, his voice rough and gravelly. He jabbed a finger at Mirak. "You think the mines are bad now? You haven't seen what's down there. The ancestors' mines are cursed. Whole expeditions of Publici disappeared without a trace. You go digging too deep, and you'll find more than just resin."

Lock raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Curses, huh? Let me guess, some ancient beast is hiding down there, waiting to devour us all?"

The old man glared at him. "Laugh all you want, boy. You'll see soon enough. The deeper you go, the worse it gets. The resin down there… it's not like the stuff we mine here. It's alive. It'll pull you in, take you over, and you'll never come back."

Mirak frowned, his thoughts turning to the pull of the resin shard in his pocket. There was a strange resonance to the old man's words, a truth that he couldn't quite dismiss. The deeper they went into the mines, the stronger the pull of the Atta became. He had felt it himself, a quiet hum that grew louder with every step. Was there something more to the resin than they had been told? Something the Watchers didn't want them to know?

"Enough of that," Lock said, waving a hand dismissively. "We've got enough to worry about without adding ghosts and monsters to the list."

The old man muttered something under his breath and turned his attention to the fire, his hands trembling slightly as he held them out to the flames. The other Publici around the fire were silent, their expressions a mix of fear and resignation. Mirak could feel the tension in the air, a palpable weight that pressed down on all of them.

The Lunar Storms howled outside the mining camp, the eerie light of Temperance's star casting long shadows across the ground. Mirak shifted in his seat, his body aching from the day's work. His thoughts drifted back to the resin shard, the faint hum of the Atta like a constant whisper in the back of his mind.

He glanced at Lock, who was staring into the fire with a faraway look in his eyes. "Why did you buy that knife?" Mirak asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

Lock blinked, his mismatched eyes focusing on Mirak. "What?"

"The knife," Mirak said, nodding toward the hidden blade. "You spent three resin flakes on it. That's months of pay. Why?"

Lock hesitated, his expression guarded. "I needed it."

"For what?"

Lock didn't answer right away. He leaned back against the rock, his gaze drifting back to the fire. "You never know when you'll need a weapon," he said finally, his voice quiet. "Down here, it's better to be prepared."

Mirak studied him for a moment, trying to read the emotion behind the words. There was something there, a flicker of fear or maybe determination. He wasn't sure which.

The fire crackled softly, the warmth doing little to ease the chill that had settled over the camp. Mirak pulled his blanket tighter around himself and leaned back against the cold, jagged rock. The resin shard in his pocket hummed faintly, a reminder of the power just out of reach.

One day, he thought. One day, I'll break these chains.