Inside the Quarry
The ground trembled with labour. Sparks flew from anvils. Lava-lit furnaces hissed. Men and women worked like machines, arms blackened with soot, eyes too tired to care who walked among them.
"They don't look very… diplomatic," Jean muttered, dodging a cart of molten ore.
"They're not," Alaric said. "But if they believe we're fighting for something greater than the king… they might just side with us."
They stopped before a central forge, where an older man stood, shirtless, arms scarred, and muscles taut with decades of command. His grey beard was braided with copper rings, his eyes sharp as the blade he was inspecting.
"The demon prince himself," he said, not looking up. Salviana glanced at her husband and back to the man. "Didn't think I'd see your cursed face again."
Alaric exhaled. "You owe me a debt, Vicih. I'm here to cash it."
"You're wanted by the king."
"And I'd rather die than kneel to him again."
That made Vicih pause.
