The gathering hall was the only part of the mine that didn't feel like a tomb.It was a massive cavern, carved out decades ago when this place had first opened. Support beams crisscrossed the ceiling like the ribs of some great beast, and torches lined the walls, their flames casting everything in warm, flickering gold. Long wooden tables had been set up in rows, already crowded with miners shoulder to shoulder. The smell of roasted meat and fresh bread,luxuries Thorne barely remembered,filled the air.At the far end of the hall, a wooden stage had been erected. It wasn't much, just planks nailed together and propped up on crates, but it served its purpose. Behind it hung a banner: “Happy Birthday, Manager Dravin!”The letters were crooked, painted by someone with more enthusiasm than skill.Thorne and Marcus squeezed into spots near the back. The benches were already packed, men elbow to elbow, but they made room. Miners always made room for each other down here. It was one of the

His men doubled over, cackling. One of them had to let go of the girl to hold his stomach, he was laughing so hard. The girl stumbled but caught herself against the wall, forgotten.Someone in the crowd muttered. "Does that kid want to kill himself?"Another voice, from a different direction: "Does he even know who he's messing with? That's Garrett. Head of security.""The boss's right-hand man.""Kid's dead. He just doesn't know it yet."The whispers spread like ripples in water, moving through the crowd. But Thorne didn't seem to hear them. His eyes stayed locked on Garrett, unblinking.Garrett made another gesture, this time clutching his chest and staggering backward dramatically, like he'd been stabbed. "Oh no!" He wailed in that same mocking tone. "My family is dead! Whatever shall I do? I know,I'll work in a mine for the rest of my miserable life, just like my murdering father deserved!"His men were practically crying with laughter now. Even some people in the crowd chuck

Footsteps approached from behind. Heavy. Deliberate. Not threatening.He turned, muscles tensing automatically, but it was just Marcus.The older man stopped a few feet away. He looked at Thorne. Then at Garrett's unconscious form. Then at the crater in the wall. Then back to Thorne.His expression was complicated. Hard to read."That was brave." Marcus said finally. His voice was quiet, measured. "Stupid, maybe. Definitely reckless. But brave."Thorne said nothing. He didn't know what to say.Marcus gestured at the gathering crowd, many of whom were still watching with a mixture of fear and awe. Some had started to clean up the debris. Others were helping the miner who'd been hit by the stray stone. But most were just staring at Thorne like they'd never seen him before."Most people in here wouldn't do what you just did." Marcus continued. "They'd walk away. Pretend they didn't see anything. Tell themselves it wasn't their problem." He paused. "You know who that man is, right?

They ran as fast as they all can.Always up. Following the slope of the tunnel as it wound toward the surface. Other miners ran with them,a desperate stream of humanity fleeing toward an uncertain fate.Thorne's lungs burned. His legs ached from the fight with Garrett and now this. But he kept moving. One foot in front of the other. Marcus beside him, breathing hard, muttering prayers under his breath.The tunnel opened up ahead. Daylight. Real daylight, not the artificial glow of torches or the sickly red of emergency lights.They burst out onto the surface.And stumbled into hell.The mining camp was burning.Not just burning,’consumed’. Every building, every tent, every structure was wrapped in flames. Orange and red and a horrible, unnatural purple that seemed to eat the light around it.But worse than the flames were the things moving through them.Skeletons.Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. It was hard to tell through the smoke. They wore black cloaks that billowed in wind that s

The first thing Thorne became aware of was the silence.Not the silence of the mines, which was never truly silent ... always threaded through with the distant groan of settling rock, the drip of underground water, the shuffle of exhausted men turning on thin mats in the dark. That silence had texture. Weight. It pressed against the eardrums like a hand.This silence was different.This silence was clean.He lay still for a long moment, eyes closed, listening to it. Mapping it. Trying to understand what it was telling him before he committed to the vulnerability of opening his eyes.That habit had kept him alive more than once in the mines, where waking up too quickly, too obviously, could invite trouble from men who mistook stillness for weakness.Drip.Water, somewhere to his left. Slow and rhythmic, patient as a heartbeat.Faint crackle.A small fire, or a candle. The warmth on the left side of his face was too gentle for a torch. Stone.The smell of it ... dry, ancient, faintly m