Alane whipped his head in his direction. "What were you saying?"
With his shaking hand raised, the priest's eyes flitted to the guards at the edge of the chamber. His voice cracked with panic as he yelled, "The Cursed one!"
"The unblessed means he's the devil!"
The chamber echoed with gasps. The church leaders flinched, their expressions contorted with disgust and terror. Confusion took the place of Kaeln's earlier excitement as he drew back behind his mother.
Sauvanne's hand dropped from his shoulder as her grey eyes stared at Alane with a cold, other look instead of tenderness.
As though he couldn't bear to look at his son, Thomas stood straight, his jaw clenched, his eyes turned away.
Each stare made Alane's body tremble and his breath catch. "Mother?" he said in a tiny, pleading voice. His hands were shaking as he stumbled to his feet. "Father? What is going on?"
The priest shouted loudly. "Guards! Seize him!"
With their spears lowered, the grey-robed church guards charged forward. The tips of their weapons glinted inches from Alane's chest as they encircled him in a tight circle.
His eyes darted from stern face to stern face, looking for a response, looking for pity, while his heart pounded.
"Father!"
Tears filled Alane's eyes and he sobbed, his voice breaking. "Please, mother! Tell them it's a mistake!"
Sauvanne's lips parted, but no words came. Her hands clenched at her sides. Thomas remained silent, his back straight, his eyes fixed on the floor. Kaeln peeked out, his small face pale, unsure whether to run to his brother or stay frozen.
"I did everything right!" he cried. "I trained, I prayed,I was meant for Suarus! Why?!"
The High Priest's voice had lost its previous warmth and was now icy. "The unblessed is not a boon. It is a sign of destruction. You have been turned away by the gods, and worse, they have designated you for damnation."
Alane's eyes fell to his hands, looking for a missing seal. His mind whirled, and his chest heaved. "No… this isn't right. It was supposed to be Suarus. I,I trained, I prayed,why would they…?"
His voice broke into a faint murmur. "This can't be…"
***************
Alane jolted upright, gasping, his breath ragged, his eyes snapping open.
Cold sweat trickled down his thin cheeks and beaded on his forehead. Yes, it was a nightmare, but it was also a memory that made his heart race.
His steel-blue eyes, which were now duller, blinked as he looked around him in the dim, foul-smelling cavern. He had grown indifferent to the smell of perspiration, wet stone, and hopelessness that pervaded the atmosphere over the years.
As he lay on the cold, hard floor, dozens of slaves slept around him, their ragged breaths a grim chorus in the darkness.
There were no comforts or blankets, only the hard bite of stone against his bony body. The heavy iron chains that bound his hands, thin and calloused from years of hard work in the mines, clinked softly as he moved. A slave collar bit into his skin around his neck.
Six years after the gods had marked him as devil, he was no longer the heir of House Fitzgerald.
It had been six years since that day. He was no longer the heir to House Fitzgerald, six years after the gods had designated him as the devil.
His once jet-black hair had turned gray and was tangled in an untidy knot. His once-strong and young body had become lean and hardened due to labor and whippings. His shirt was ragged and covered in dust, and it stuck to his sweat drenched body.
"Alan, what happened?" His whirling thoughts were interrupted by a quiet, drowsy voice.
Despite the storm in his chest, he turned his head and maintained a composed expression. Moriko stirred beside him, rubbing her eyes with her little hands, while her cat-black ears twitched.
The young beastkin girl, barely adult, lay curled on the floor, her threadbare clothes barely covering her slight frame. Her collarbone and the edge of her bare chest were partially visible due to the sloppy material of her tunic, but Alan's gaze did not remain there.
Nobody could keep modesty here.
"Just a nightmare," he muttered.
Moriko's tail flicked languidly as she flopped back onto the stone, yawning. "The master will return shortly," she muttered, her voice slurred with fatigue.
"Sleep if you don't want to be whipped again."
His eyes went to the chains around his wrists and he remained silent.
He had lost his family, his name, and his title after being exiled. branded as a devil, put in jail, and sold into slavery.
He ran a finger across the collar of the slave. If he disobeyed the commands, the enchantment would guarantee obedience and cause him excruciating pain. With the scars from his first rebellion still visible on his back, he had already learned that lesson.
But something resolute burned in him, a spark that would not go out, despite the years of labor, the beatings, and the hunger.
The cold bit into Alan's aching bones as he fell back to the ground.
He'd thrown away his old name, Alane Fitzgerald.
To the slaves, the guards, the world, he was just Alan now. A nobody.
A burning desire for vengeance fuels the fire in his chest. Here, in the squalid depths of the Parheller mines, he would not perish.
Not until he tracked down all of the people who had betrayed him, including his mother, father, family, the gods who had cursed him, the servants who had abandoned him. He was staying alive and focused on the thought.
He closed his eyes. A chance would present itself somehow. All he could do was wait. To live. To endure.
As usual, the morning arrived too quickly. The slaves were startled out of their restless slumber by the loud ringing of the overseer's bell.
Alan stood, his slender frame moving with a silent strength that set him apart, his grey hair tied in a tight knot.
The Parheller mines were a maze of dark tunnels that were overflowing with gravion, a rare, light metal that was more valuable than steel and used for armor and weapons throughout Lavrios.
It was the Verdelane Dukedom's wealth, mined by slaves worked to death for every shiny piece.
The repetitive thud of Alan's pickaxe reverberated through the tunnel as he swung it with steady skill. Dust adhered to his sweaty shirt and sweat stung his eyes, but his strikes never slowed. Not much, but enough, more gravion was dug out by him than by most around him.
The rhythm of the tunnel was broken with a sharp shout.
"Accident! The wall has gone down!
Through the steady clatter of pickaxes and screams, the voice was raw and panicked.
Alan paused, held his pickaxe on his shoulder. With their eyes darting toward the sound, the other slaves came to a halt.
"What happened?" Alan muttered.
Chains rattling like a grim song, slaves shuffled deeper into the tunnel. Alan calmly followed slowly.
Around a heap of ragged debris strewn all over the floor, the crowd gathered. A slave's shattered body was partially buried beneath it. A tunnel wall had collapsed, a common danger in the Parheller mines, where greed always beat safety.
Alan's gaze, however, was not on the corpse. They focused on the dark hole in the wall,a rugged cavern with odd, uneven edges, like the earth had broken apart. These unexpected dungeons, which occasionally revealed empty rooms or, infrequently, treasures protected by traps, were common in the mines.
It felt different this time. It was dark.
Something tugged at Alan even though he couldn't see inside. His breath caught as he took a step forward.
"What's happening here?" Through the murmurs of the slaves, a harsh voice roared.
Heads turned toward the sound as the crowd flinched.
The overseer of the mine, Dekel Chorev, walked into view, his fat figure clad in gaudy silks that were an odd match for the dingy tunnel. His small, ruthless eyes scanned the scene with disgust, and his half-bald head glistened with perspiration. He exuded the small-time brutality that dominated Varkis, flanked by guards and the supervisor, their whips ready and coiled.
"Back to work!" Dekel roared, his voice thick with venom.
"Ten seconds, or I'll flay you all!"
No one needed more warning. Dekel's cruelty was well-known, lashings were the least of his punishments. The slaves scattered, gasping and tripping over their chains as they rushed to their spots.
Alan moved with them, his face blank as he passed the overseer.
'Fat bastard.'
Dekel shuffled toward the rubble, muttering curses.
"Useless filthy pest," he spat, kicking the dead slave's exposed arm. His eyes shifted to the cave, narrowing as he peered into its depths.
"Dark as death in there," he grunted, a hint of curiosity in his tone. "Looks deep. Get the raiders to check it tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," the supervisor answered, his voice sharp and obedient.
Alan lingered at the crowd's edge, his eyes fixed on the cave.
Flashes, visions, raced through his mind as he stared. A flickering golden flame. A figure in shadow, covered in ash. He heard an elderly, icy voice whispering words he couldn't understand.
The pickaxe almost slipped from his shoulder as he froze, his breath catching. The pull intensified, pushing him in the direction of the shadows.
"Get moving, grey-hair!" He was startled back by Moriko's piercing whisper. Her black cat ears twitched nervously as she rushed past, nudging his arm. "Are you trying to whip us both?"
Alan blinked as he pushed his feet to move, the visions fading.
*******************
At night, the typical pickaxe smashing had stopped, and the only sound coming from the Parheller mines was the gentle trickle of water. Since the collapse of the day, the cave has remained unaltered.
Something moved from its depths.
A long, twisted hand, too many thin fingers, knotted and grey, reached out and clawed at the rough edge of the stone.
There was a faint screech in the silence as its black, sharp nails scratched the rock. The hand held onto the wall, trembling as though it were having trouble freeing itself.