The Shattered Crowns

The quiet crackling of the fire did little to mask the cold that settled in Mirak's bones. For a moment, his mind wandered to warmer days in Morgoi, to the humid heat of the jungles and the song of cicadas at dusk. It was a fleeting memory, snatched away by the sharp cough of another Publici. The sound was a wet, rattling thing, and Mirak didn't even bother looking toward the source. They all coughed like that sooner or later.

The dust of the mines clung to them, an invisible poison working its way into their lungs. There was no escape from it. Even here, above ground, the taste of it coated Mirak's tongue like ash.

Lock broke the silence with a low murmur. "I'll tell you this, Mirak. If there's a curse down in the ancestors' mines, I'd take it over this life any day."

Mirak didn't reply immediately. He stared at the faint shimmer of his shackles, the etched runes glinting under the light of the fire. The chains seemed heavier tonight, the weight of them a constant reminder of his place in this world.

"I don't believe in curses," Mirak said eventually, his voice quiet but firm. "But I believe in the greed of men. Whatever's down there, the Watchers will bleed us dry to get to it."

Lock chuckled dryly. "True enough. And if we don't dig it up for them, they'll sell us off to someone who will."

The thought made Mirak's stomach churn. He had seen it happen before. Publici who were too old, too sick, or too slow to meet their quotas were sold to other Watchers or worse. Mirak had heard stories of the southern mines, where men and women worked until their bodies gave out completely, buried in shallow graves marked only by the tools they had died holding.

The fire snapped, sending a small shower of embers into the air. Mirak glanced at Lock, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the flickering light. "Why do you think the Watcher keeps us here?" Mirak asked.

Lock raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"We're different," Mirak said, gesturing to his shackles. "Me, with these runes, and you, with your… well, whatever you've got going on. Why hasn't he sold us off yet?"

Lock smirked, leaning back against the rock. "Maybe he's got a soft spot for cripples and freaks."

Mirak rolled his eyes but didn't press the issue. He knew Lock was hiding something, just as he was. They all had their secrets, things they kept buried deep, even from themselves.

Before Mirak could say more, a sharp whistle pierced the air, drawing the attention of the camp. The Watcher stood at the edge of the courtyard, his silhouette stark against the faint glow of Temperance's star. Flanked by two Saki guards, his imposing figure was a reminder of the power he wielded over them.

"Back to the barracks," the Watcher barked in Kavish, his voice carrying easily over the camp.

Mirak translated for the others, though the meaning was clear enough from the Watcher's tone. The Publici began to rise slowly, their movements sluggish with exhaustion. Lock pushed himself up with a groan, stretching his arms above his head.

"Guess story time's over," he muttered.

Mirak followed the others as they shuffled toward the barracks, a series of low, cramped buildings nestled against the jagged cliffs of the fourth wall. The structures were barely more than wooden shacks, their roofs patched with scraps of metal to keep out the worst of the weather.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and damp wood. The Lunar Storms seeped through the cracks in the walls, their cold tendrils snaking through the room like ghostly fingers. Mirak settled into his corner, pulling his blanket tight around him.

The resin shard was still in his pocket, its faint hum a constant presence in the back of his mind. He resisted the urge to pull it out again, to let the Atta flow through him and give him the strength he so desperately needed. Not here. Not where the Saki could see.

Lock dropped onto the cot next to him, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. "Get some rest," he said, his voice low. "Tomorrow's another day in paradise."

Mirak didn't respond. He stared at the ceiling, the faint sound of breathing and rustling blankets filling the room. Sleep wouldn't come easily tonight.

The next day began like all the others, with the harsh clang of a bell and the barked orders of the Saki guards. Mirak stumbled out of the barracks, his body aching from the previous day's work. The cold morning air bit at his skin as he joined the line of Publici shuffling toward the mines.

The resin caches were further depleted now, the once-glistening veins reduced to a dull shimmer. Mirak swung his pickaxe with his one good arm, the metal clinking uselessly against the stubborn rock. Every swing sent a jolt of pain through his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and kept going.

Lock worked nearby, his pickaxe striking the rock with rhythmic precision. "You ever wonder where all this resin goes?" he asked between swings.

Mirak grunted. "To the Watchers, the lords, the Saki. Whoever pays the most for it."

Lock smirked. "And what do they do with it? Build their pretty towers? Line their pockets with gold?"

Mirak shrugged. "Does it matter? We're the ones digging it up, not them."

Lock's smirk faded, and he swung his pickaxe harder, the metal biting into the rock with a sharp crack.

As the day wore on, the Publici moved deeper into the mines, their torches casting long shadows on the walls. The air grew thicker, the taste of dust mingling with the faint, metallic tang of resin. Mirak's grip on his pickaxe tightened as the pull of the Atta grew stronger, the hum in his mind almost deafening now.

He glanced at the others, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. The old man's words echoed in his mind. Nothing but death lurks in our ancestors' folly.

But Mirak wasn't afraid of death. He was afraid of wasting away in these mines, of dying a slow, meaningless death under the weight of the Watcher's chains.

As he chipped away at the rock, a single thought burned in his mind.

I will break free. No matter the cost.