Chapter 9 - Falgin Bloomery

  Aldwin stood tall, chin up, staring down at Dravan.

  “It’s sir Aldwin to you.”

  Dravan dragged his head free of the shattered stone and coughed. Blood streamed from his nose, dark and thick, but his grin never faltered. He spat grit onto the floor.

  “How honorable,” he said hoarsely. “Trading your family for a title.”

  The prisoners gasped. Guards stepped forward on instinct, their swords half drawn, hands trembling. But none of them dared close the distance.

  “At ease,” Aldwin said quietly, “I did not strike to kill.”

  Agitation twisted through Elrin. The stone crater told a different story. Just standing near it, Elrin still felt the echo of the blow humming through his bones. That strike should have crushed flesh, shattered skull, ended everything.

  Dravan rolled his neck. Bone cracked wetly as it settled back into place, unfazed.

  Just what kind of a monster is he?

  Aldwin’s jaw tightened. “That was mercy,” he said. “You have exhausted it. Choose your next words carefully.”

  Dravan’s smile only got wider.

  Aldwin understood. His hand moved to the hilt. With a single, brutal motion, he swung the weapon upward into striking position, weightless in his hands, daring Dravan to speak again.

  Dravan opened his mouth—

  Elrin did not know why he moved. Maybe he had seen enough wasteful death. Maybe the fearless prisoner reminded him of his brother, standing tall even at the end.

  Elrin reached out and gripped the rough fabric of Dravan’s tunic. “Do not throw your life away,” he said. “Do not die in vain.”

  Dravan froze. Slowly, he turned his head and looked down at Elrin for a long moment, his eyes were sharp and calculating. Then something else surfaced beneath them.

  Pain.

  Aldwin spoke before Dravan could. “I am not the man you remember,” he said calmly. “Heed the boy’s words. Live.”

  Dravan scoffed, his gaze returned to Aldwin.

  Elrin kept his eyes locked on Dravan. And for a moment, an image appeared in his mind—Wean, somewhere beyond this place, still breathing.

  “Is there someone waiting for you?” Elrin asked quietly.

  The question struck deeper than the blade ever could. Dravan’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickered, distant and raw, before he turned away.

  Aldwin lowered his sword. “That boy saved your life, Dravan,” he said. Then he turned toward the guard beside the fire. “Mark them for the Mine.”

  The guard drew a rod bearing the letter M.

  The iron touched Dravan’s shoulder, he didn’t react.

  Then the guard turned to Elrin. The boy shut his eyes and bit down hard.

  The heat came first, pressing against his skin like a living thing. For a single impossible heartbeat, the iron felt cold.

  Then the pain arrived.

  It tore through him, bright and overwhelming, stealing the air from his lungs. Elrin tried to scream and found nothing came out. His body locked, every muscle seizing as the brand burned itself into him. When it ended, he collapsed forward, gasping like a drowning man pulled from water.

  But the pain did not fade. It deepened with every movement.

  “Follow me,” Sir Aldwin ordered.

  The prisoners were led through a long, narrow tunnel. The sound of metal against metal grew closer with each step. The air thickened, humid, hot. Flickering light in the distance cast long shadows on the walls, dancing like ghosts.

  Elrin’s mind narrowed to a single point: the continuous burning in his right shoulder. He tried not to move, tried to keep the muscles still, but it was useless. The pain pulsed with every breath, every heartbeat.

  They reached the end of the tunnel. And they were hit with a wall of heat, hotter than any summer day. The stench of burned hair clung to the air. Fumes stung their eyes, drawing tears.

  “Welcome to Falgin Bloomery,” Sir Aldwin shouted. “You’ve all been marked with your assigned sections. You will be fed, clothed, and well taken care of—but we expect your full cooperation.”

  Well taken care of….

  Whispers rose from the prisoners. Elrin was close enough to hear.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “They kidnap us, torture us, and now they’re merciful?” said the prisoner next to Dravan.

  “At the very least, be honest—we’re here as slaves—”

  “Enough!” Aldwin silenced them. “You’ll wake at the bell toll and begin the day’s work. Hit your daily quota before day’s end, or you’ll be punished accordingly.” Without ceremony, he walked forward. The prisoners followed.

  The first section was the Smith Quarters, where dirty, grimy men hammered endlessly at red-glowing metal on anvils. The clang of steel against steel filled the chamber, punctuated by the hiss of quenched metal. Heat radiated from a dozen forges, turning the air thick and acrid. Sweat darkened their backs, soot blackened their faces, but their arms never slowed—rise, strike, rise, strike—mechanical and unthinking.

  None of them turned to look. No, they were beyond that. They had accepted their fate, worn it into their bones until acknowledgment itself became too much effort.

  “Smiths!” Aldwin ordered.

  One guard stepped up and removed the prisoners with the S mark on their shoulder. Aldwin continued to the next section, the Bellows.

  The smiths used hot fire to melt iron, but the real heat came from beyond them, massive chambers of fire and embers that roared like caged beasts. Enormous bellows sat before each inferno, multiple men jumping on them in rhythm, pumping powerful gusts of wind. The fires surged with each blast, white-hot and hungry.

  Elrin felt his saliva evaporate the moment scorching air entered his lungs. The men working the bellows wore nothing but their underwear, their bodies coated in soot and ash. It was easy to tell who’d been here longest, their skin was charred, blackened like the metal they fed to the flames.

  “Bellows!” commanded Aldwin.

  The guards moved to grab the two prisoners, but they didn’t budge. Their feet were planted firm. Aldwin walked up to the first one. The prisoner dropped to his knees, his forehead pressing against the ground at Aldwin’s feet.

  “P-Please sir—not here—I’ll go anywhere b-b-but here—please.”

  Aldwin stared down at the prostrated man, feeling the guards’ expectant glares burning into him.

  “On your feet, prisoner!”

  “Please sir, I beg—”

  “Be quiet and STAND UP!”

  The man climbed to his feet, head drooping low, eyes squeezed shut.

  Aldwin turned to the other prisoners. “Disobedience is rewarded with immediate death.” His glare shifted to the man opposite him. “I will show mercy—as it is your first day.”

  The prisoner finally looked up at Aldwin, a faint smile on his face as tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Go to your section, or I’ll make you step into that fire,” the knight added.

  The prisoner began whimpering again and slowly walked toward the Bellows. The second prisoner obeyed without trouble.

  Out of the scorching heat and into a maze of tunnels they went. The air cooled slightly, though it remained thick with the smell of damp earth and unwashed bodies.

  On the right side sat dozens of carts lined up like soldiers. Men hauled black ore from the deeper tunnels, their arms straining under the weight. Some pushed the laden carts toward the Bellows, muscles corded and trembling. Others returned with empty carts, moving faster but no less weary. Among them were boys—some no older than Elrin himself. None spoke. None looked up. They were a river of silent, suffering labor, flowing endlessly between darkness and fire.

  “Tunnels!” barked Aldwin.

  The guards went to the three prisoners in front of Dravan. And they obeyed without hesitation.

  Aldwin led Elrin and Dravan to their section, the last section, the Mine.

  The tunnels here were larger, their walls jagged from mining. This time, Aldwin said nothing, it was self-explanatory. He stood there, staring at Dravan.

  Their gazes held for a long moment, a silent conversation passing between them. Then Aldwin turned and left.

  The guard pointed toward the far wall, where tents were lined up in rows, gesturing at two of them at the end of the line. Elrin followed, and the guard left.

  “Lad, I owe you one,” Dravan said, patting Elrin on the shoulder. “I always thought I’d be calm the next time I saw him. Turns out rage has a way of slipping the leash.” His gaze wandered for a moment.

  “You don’t sound angry now,” Elrin muttered.

  Dravan huffed a quiet laugh. “Anger draws eyes. I don’t need eyes on me.”

  Elrin frowned. “That’s it? You just… accept this?”

  Dravan glanced toward the tunnel mouth, listening—not fearful, just attentive. “I endure it,” he said. “There’s a difference. What’s your name?”

  “Elrin.”

  “Dravan,” said the man as he was about to leave.

  “No Commonborn could’ve survived that blow,” Elrin pressed. “You walked it off.”

  Dravan smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then it’s a good thing I won’t be here long enough for that to matter.”

  “You think you can escape?”

  Dravan stood, already turning toward his tent. “I think sleep is more useful than questions right now. We’ve got work tomorrow.” He paused at the curtain. “Try not to make yourself unforgettable on your first day.”

  Then he was gone.

  How can he be this calm?

  The boy parted the curtains and entered his tent.

  It was bare and empty, but much better and larger than he'd expected for a human slave under demon rule. It was large enough for someone to stand inside. A straw bed sat against the back wall, thick enough to provide real comfort, with a rough woolen cover folded at its foot. In the corner, a small woven basket held clean clothes—a simple tunic and trousers, worn but serviceable.

  Elrin stood there, taking it in.

  A bed. Clean clothes.

  They weren't being thrown into a pit to rot. Sir Aldwin's words echoed in his mind: fed, clothed, and well taken care of. The knight hadn't been lying. Somehow, that made everything feel more sinister.

  As he reached for the curtain to close it, something black slipped past his ankle and darted inside the tent, fast and low, a shadow against the ground, before curling near the tent wall.

  Elrin froze. It took him a moment to understand what he was seeing.

  “Lancelot,” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  The cat rose and padded toward him, rattling its tail. It pressed its head against his leg and purred, warm and alive.

  “You cannot be here,” he murmured. “If they see you—”

  A shout rang out from the tunnels. “It went this way.”

  Boots scraped stone. Metal clinked.

  Elrin’s breath hitched. He looked at the tent curtains, then down at the cat, sucking in a sharp breath.

  Outside, a voice barked an order. “Inspect the tents.”

  The cat ran to the corner, its tail puffed up, eyes unblinking.

  Elrin reached up and pulled the curtain shut.

  Boots stopped just outside his tent, a gauntleted hand reached in.

  Elrin stayed, clenched his fist, and prepared to lunge at the first hand that reached for the cat.

  The curtain swung open.