The separation was like a physical tear in the air. As the heavy iron-reinforced doors of the sorting shed slammed shut, cutting off his sight of Asarmose, Alistair felt a surge of adrenaline so potent it nearly overrode the foul scent-blocker in his system.
He was marched toward the Alpha pits, a sprawling, jagged excavation where the earth groaned under the weight of the machinery. But while his body went through the motions of labor, his mind was a storm of strategic calculations and cold, simmering fury.
Alistair swung the heavy pickaxe with a rhythmic, violent precision. Every strike against the stubborn iron-ore was a channeled burst of his rage.
While the men around him swung their picks with desperate, frantic energy, their chests heaving and their skin drenched in "sweat buckets," Alistair moved with a terrifying, rhythmic economy. To the other workers, the iron-vein was an enemy to be conquered; to Alistair, it was merely a physical obstacle in the way of his objective.
