The thin gruel that passed for dinner sat heavy in Aiden's stomach like a stone of its own. Around him, the dormitory settled into its nightly ritual of exhausted silence—forty-four bodies collapsing onto their cots with the boneless fatigue that came from fourteen hours of backbreaking labor.
He lay on his back, staring at the rotting beams overhead, and began his nightly recitation. He had his piece of granite in his hand. His fingers tracing the scratches like prayer beads.
The words formed soundlessly on his lips, each name a prayer of vengeance whispered to gods who had long since abandoned this place.
Lord Commander Voss.
The man who had led the raid on his family's estate. Tall and lean, with a scar running from his left temple to his jaw. He'd worn silver armor that night, polished to a mirror shine, and when he'd driven his sword through Aiden's father's chest, he'd smiled like a man enjoying a fine wine.
Magistrate Cornelius.
Fat and balding, with soft hands that had never held anything heavier than a quill. He'd arrived three days after the massacre to declare the family's holdings forfeit and its surviving members property of the state. His voice had been high and reedy as he'd read the charges—treason, sedition, conspiracy against the crown. All lies, but lies with the weight of law behind them.
Merchant Prince Aldric.
The slave trader who had bought him at auction after Aiden was sold for the second time. A thin man with dead eyes and a mouth that never smiled, he'd examined him like livestock, checking his teeth and testing his muscle tone before making his bids. Aiden could still remember the feel of those cold fingers pinching his arms, measuring his worth in copper coins.
Captain Jakson.
Drayton's predecessor, the man who had run the quarry during Aiden's first two years of captivity. He'd taken particular pleasure in breaking the spirits of the slaves, and his methods had been... creative. There were still some scars that Aiden could recognise at Jakson's art.
Overseer Kaine.
He had an accident last year and had left this quarry. But somewhere out there he was still alive, still making lives miserable with his quick temper and quicker whip. A small man who compensated for his size with excessive cruelty, he had a talent for finding new ways to inflict pain without reducing productivity.
Overseer Boris.
The drunkard with the wandering hands and the vicious streak. Yesterday's whipping had been mild by his standards—Aiden had seen him flay a man's back to ribbons for the crime of looking tired during roll call.
Overseer Drayton.
Today's performance with Sarah had earned him a permanent place on the list. Not just for what he'd done, but for the casual enjoyment he'd taken in doing it. Men who took pleasure in torture deserved special attention when the reckoning came.
The names cycled through his mind like a litany, each one carved deeper into his memory with every repetition. Seven names now, but the list would grow.
It always grew. Every day brought fresh cruelties, new faces to remember, new debts to be paid.
Around him, the dormitory had settled into the cautious quiet that marked the end of another day in hell. Conversation was forbidden after evening roll call—the overseers had made that clear six years ago when they'd driven iron nails through the lips of two slaves caught whispering after lights out. The wounds had festered, and both men had died of blood poisoning within a week.
Since then, the nights had been filled with nothing but the sound of labored breathing and the occasional whimper from someone caught in the grip of a nightmare.
It was a silence that pressed down on the soul like a physical weight, crushing hope and humanity with equal efficiency.
But tonight, as Aiden lay staring at the ceiling, he noticed something different.
Movement in the corner near the back wall. Just a shadow shifting against shadows, but his eyes had grown sharp during his years of captivity.
Three figures were rising from their cots with the careful precision of men who had done this many times before.
Old Marcus, the former house guard whose white hair marked him as one of the quarry's longest survivors.
Jon the stonemason, whose hands still remembered their craft despite six years of crude labor.
And Willem, a small trader's son who had somehow retained a spark of dignity despite everything this place had tried to take from him.
They moved like ghosts, bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floor. One by one, they slipped between the rows of sleeping bodies, heading toward the small door that led to the storage caves carved into the quarry's back wall.
Aiden had noticed them before, these midnight wanderers, but he'd never been curious enough to follow. Sleep was precious in this place, and the few hours of rest between work shifts were not to be wasted on mysteries.
But tonight was different. Tonight, the rage burning in his chest from Sarah's humiliation made sleep impossible anyway.
He waited until the three shadows had disappeared through the door, then counted to fifty before easing himself off his cot. The welts on his back pulled tight as he sat up, sending fresh spikes of pain through his shoulders, but he bit back any sound that might wake his neighbors.
Moving with the same ghostly silence he'd learned watching the older slaves, he picked his way between the rows of cots toward the storage room door. It stood slightly ajar, revealing nothing but darkness beyond. But as he drew closer, he caught the faint sound of voices—barely more than whispers, but definitely conversation.
How were they talking without alerting the guards?
He pressed his ear to the gap in the door and listened. The voices were coming from deeper in the caves, muffled by distance and stone. And now that he was listening carefully, he could hear something else—the clink of metal on metal that suggested coin changing hands.
Of course. They were bribing the guards.
It made sense, in a twisted way. Even slaves accumulated small possessions over time—a better piece of flint, a sharper eating knife, sometimes even a copper coin dropped by a careless overseer.
And guards were always interested in supplementing their meager pay, especially if it meant turning a blind eye to relatively harmless activities.
Even though these slaves had very little they could offer the guards, but every little bit counted. Some things found in these quarries were sometimes worth more than mere copper coins.
And anyway if they were caught, they could always deny their involvement.
Aiden puzzled over why were the older slaves even doing this. He knew that there was no way to get out of here other than going through the way they came in when they were brought here.
The way which had more guards and overseers than it had doors.
So what could be worth the risk? If not freedom.
Discovery would mean death, or worse.
What could drive desperate men to gamble their lives for a few hours of conversation in a dark cave?
Curiosity overrode caution. Aiden slipped through the door like smoke.
The storage cave was exactly what it appeared to be—a rough chamber carved from the living rock, filled with broken tools and spare lumber. But there was another passage at the back, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze through. The voices were coming from beyond it, along with a faint glow that suggested lamplight.
He made his way to the passage entrance and peered through.
The space beyond was larger than expected—a natural cavern that opened up into a chamber the size of a small room. Three oil lamps provided flickering illumination, casting dancing shadows on the rough walls. And there, seated in a rough circle on the stone floor, were the three slaves he'd followed.
But they looked... different.
Marcus held his hands cupped before him, and between his palms danced a tiny flame no bigger than a candle's light. It was weak, barely more than a spark, but it was real fire conjured from nothing but will and power. His weathered face was transformed by concentration, years falling away as he focused on maintaining the delicate manifestation.
Jon was moving his fingers in complex patterns, and where they passed, small pebbles rose from the floor to hover in the air. Only for a few seconds, and only a few inches, but they defied gravity through pure force of mind. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort, but his eyes held a light that Aiden hadn't seen in years—the light of a man remembering what it felt like to be more than a beast of burden.
Willem's manifestation was the most subtle. He simply sat with his eyes closed, but the air around him shimmered with barely visible distortions. It took Aiden a moment to realize what he was seeing—the man was bending light itself, creating small patches of shadow and brightness that shifted and flowed like living things.
They were awakened. All three of them.
The realization hit Aiden like a physical blow. He'd spent six years assuming that all the slaves were powerless, broken, reduced to the same level of helpless humanity. But these men had unlocked their cores, developed their abilities, become something more than human—and then lost it all when they were enslaved.
"Getting stronger," Marcus murmured, his voice barely audible even in the confined space. The flame between his hands flickered but held steady. "Week by week, bit by bit. It's coming back."
"Mine too," Jon whispered, letting the pebbles fall back to the floor with tiny clicking sounds. "Not much, but more than last month. The collar suppresses it, but it can't stop it entirely."
Willem opened his eyes, and the light distortions faded away. "The question is what we do with it when we're strong enough to matter."
"We get out," Marcus said simply. "We escape this place and find somewhere the Consortium's reach doesn't extend."
"And go where?" Jon's voice held a bitter edge. "We're marked men. Branded slaves. There's nowhere in the Empire we could hide."
"Then we go beyond the Empire."
"To the Wildlands? The Fractured Coast? Those places will kill us faster than any slave collar."
Willem held up a hand for silence. "We've had this argument before. The point is that we have options now that we didn't have a year ago. Our power is returning, slowly but surely. In another year, maybe two, we might be strong enough to—"
He cut off abruptly, his head turning toward the passage entrance. Toward where Aiden crouched in the shadows.
"Someone's there," Willem whispered, his voice tight with fear.
Aiden's heart hammered against his ribs. If they raised an alarm, if they brought the guards running... He'd be dead before dawn. Worse than dead—they'd make an example of him that would terrorize the other slaves for months.
But instead of running, instead of trying to slip away, he found himself stepping into the circle of lamplight.
Three pairs of eyes fixed on him with the intensity of cornered animals.
Marcus's hand moved toward a piece of broken stone that could serve as a weapon.
Jon half-rose to his feet, ready to fight or flee. Willem's expression was unreadable, but the air around him began to shimmer again as he prepared to use his power.
"Please," Aiden whispered, the word barely more than a breath. "I won't tell anyone. I swear it."
For a long moment, nobody moved. The tension in the cave was thick enough to cut with a knife. One wrong word, one sudden movement, and violence would explode through the small space.
Then Marcus laughed—a sound so unexpected that everyone flinched.
"Look at him," the old guard said, his voice still barely above a whisper but warm with something that might have been kindness. "Sixteen years old and already learning to move like a ghost. You followed us here without making a sound, boy. That takes skill."
"Or desperation," Willem said, but his stance relaxed slightly.
"What do you want?" Jon asked bluntly. "If you're looking for something to trade to the overseers—"
"No," Aiden said quickly. "Nothing like that. I just... I saw you moving differently. I was just curious, so I just came to... see."
The three men exchanged glances. Some silent communication passed between them, the kind of understanding that came from shared suffering and mutual trust.
"Show him," Marcus said finally.
"Show me what?"
Willem gestured for him to sit. Reluctantly, still ready to bolt if this proved to be a trap, Aiden lowered himself to the stone floor.
"Hold out your hand," Willem instructed.
Aiden extended his right hand, palm up. Willem placed his own hand above it, not quite touching, and closed his eyes. The air between their palms began to shimmer and twist.
And suddenly, Aiden felt it. A warmth that had nothing to do with body heat. A tingling sensation that ran up his arm and into his chest, like lightning made of silk. For just a moment, just a heartbeat, he felt... more. Stronger. As if some sleeping part of himself had stirred and taken notice.
Then Willem pulled his hand away, and the sensation faded.
"What was that?" Aiden breathed.
"Power," Marcus said simply. "The same power that burns in every human soul, waiting to be awakened. The same power that makes us more than just clever animals scratching in the dirt."
"But I'm not—I haven't—"
"Awakened?" Jon shook his head. "Not yet, maybe. But everyone has the potential. The question is whether you have the will to unlock it."
Aiden stared at his hand, trying to recapture that moment of electric warmth. "Is that what you're doing here? Trying to unlock your power?"
"Trying to reclaim it," Willem corrected. "We were all awakened before we were enslaved. The collars suppress our abilities, but they can't destroy them entirely. With practice, with patience, we can slowly rebuild what was taken from us."
"And when we're strong enough," Marcus added, his eyes glinting in the lamplight, "we're going to burn this place to the ground."
The words hung in the air like a promise of redemption. For the first time in six years, Aiden felt something stir in his chest that wasn't rage or despair.
It was hope.
"Can you teach me?" he whispered.
The three men looked at each other again. This time, the silence stretched longer, weighted with implications that could mean freedom or death for all of them.
Finally, Marcus nodded.
"If you're willing to risk everything," he said quietly. "If you're willing to bet your life on the chance that you might be something more than a slave."
Aiden thought of Sarah's screams. Of his sister's face as the armored men dragged her away. Of seven names whispered in the darkness, waiting for the day when they could be spoken aloud in judgment.
"I'm willing," he said.
"Then we can at least teach you how to feel the mana around you, so that maybe if you have even a little gift, you could awaken someday."
And in the dancing light of three small lamps, in a cave carved from the bones of the earth, the first lesson began.