The clang of iron echoed through the stone chamber as the guards dragged Elias out of the cell. Shackles bit into his wrists, rough chains linking him to a line of gaunt men and women. The air outside stank of ash and sweat, a harsh sun beating down on the jagged southern hills.
He stumbled forward, coughing, his bare feet sinking into gravel. Dust swirled around them, kicked up by boots and the lash of whips. Beyond the rusted gate stretched a scar in the earth: a quarry carved into the hillside, ringed with wooden watchtowers and crude palisades.
The prisoners shuffled like cattle. Some bore the hardened eyes of soldiers, scars across their arms and faces. Others looked like peasants, thin and hollow-eyed, bones pressing against skin. A few wore what remained of fine clothes, now ragged, but their posture betrayed noble breeding. All bound by the same chains.
The guard captain barked something Elias barely caught—foreign words that pulsed oddly in his ears. His mark burned faintly, twisting the sounds into broken fragments: "work … stone … until death."
The line lurched forward. A hammer was shoved into his hands. The weight nearly toppled him.
Hours blurred into aching labor. Strike, lift, drag. Sweat ran into his eyes, salt stinging raw skin. The air trembled with the crack of whips, the groan of stone, the coughs of the sick.
A man beside him collapsed. The guards jeered, hauling him up only to lash him across the back until he staggered upright again. Another prisoner—a hulking man with soldier's shoulders—whispered curses under his breath, spitting on the ground after every lash.
Elias' arms screamed with pain. His back throbbed. He had never labored like this in his life. He dropped the hammer once and felt the bite of a whip slash across his shoulders. The fire in his mark flared at the same moment, and for a heartbeat he thought he heard voices—distant, murmuring in the wind. "… endure … endure …"
By the time dusk bled into the sky, his body trembled on the edge of collapse. They were herded back toward the camp like broken animals.
That was when he saw him again—the prisoner from the cell.
The Mad Prophet.
He was chained to a post near the edge of the camp, his hair a filthy tangle, his eyes wild and burning with fevered intensity. He mouthed words no one paid attention to, a constant stream of whispers.
As Elias passed, the Prophet's gaze snapped toward him.
The mark on Elias' arm flared.
And for the briefest instant, the gibberish turned clear:
"The mark feeds on struggle. You cannot escape it."
Elias froze, heart hammering. A guard shoved him forward, snarling. He stumbled, nearly falling face-first into the dirt.
When he looked back, the Prophet was still muttering, his eyes rolling like a man possessed. No one else seemed to notice.
Back in the crude barracks, Elias collapsed onto a straw mat, muscles twitching, lungs aching. Around him, prisoners lay in silence—soldiers, peasants, and nobles alike, reduced to the same state of exhaustion. The stench of sweat and despair filled the air.
He stared at the rough-hewn beams above. Every breath felt like fire.
The mark still throbbed, faint but insistent. His mind raced with questions he could not answer.
Who was that man?
What was this "mark"?
And how long before his body broke under the chains?
For the first time since waking in this cursed land, Elias wondered if death had truly spared him—or simply delivered him into a deeper hell.