Her home was a claustrophobic burrow, a mere fissure in the cavern wall, much like an anthill. A colony pressed together like grains of sand in a cellular structure. The unrelenting heat enveloped Talitha, even in the dim light filtering through the entrance. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring the sight of her father. His back, a canvas of deep indentations and scabs atop old scars from years of toil, seemed to slump further under the weight of his burdens. His thin gruel sat untouched. Each mouthful left in the bowl mirrored the way his shoulders sagged. Fresh welts marred his exposed skin, angry red against the dusky tone. They weren't simple cuts—their raised, blistered edges whispered a horrifying truth. Brimstone burns.
The air reeked like a tomb opened too soon, a suffocating blend of metallic blood and sulfur. The stench clung to her father's clothes like a second skin, so strong it scorched her nostrils. This was the sweltering inferno he descended into every day. Talitha could almost feel the sting on her own skin, the searing heat promising blistering torment. A suffocating dread settled in her stomach—the relentless mining of the "Devil's Gold" would surely be his demise, a slow, agonizing death by fire.
Slowly, he turned, his weathered features etched with concern. With a trembling hand, her father reached out, his touch rough and calloused. He gently brushed a tear from her cheek, the warmth momentarily soothing the sting of her grief. His usually weary eyes held a hint of concern. "Don't think. Don't feel," her father rasped, his voice rough from disuse. He rarely spoke, conserving his energy for the hard labor to come. "Just save your strength."
Wiping away the last of her tears, she cleared her throat. "Why didn't you cover your back today, Dad?"
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Silence. Sometimes, he was too weary for conversation. This unspoken burden hung heavy between them. With a sigh, she dipped a worn cloth into their limited water supply, gently tending to the inflamed skin.
"Dad," she began, her voice barely a whisper, "I know you're tired. I know you're hurting. But we'll get through this. We have to."
Talitha's father's gaze remained fixed on the rough tunnel wall as she poured water into his bowl. He slurped it down, his eyes glazed over from years of backbreaking labor.
On better days, a spark of pride would light them up, fueled by desperate hope. On those days, he would respond, "We always have," and then continue to share long stories of his hopes and dreams.
And she'd always entertained them. He wanted her to work in the Nure-Queen's chambers, a secluded alcove deeper within the labyrinthine mine. Whispers said it held a less harsh life. But tonight, the idea of navigating the viper's nest, further from her father, seemed a horrible gamble, not a path to safety. Those dreams seemed a tattered tapestry, the threads of hope fraying at the edges.
Speaking of frayed, she inspected her dad’s boots and cursed. Another mending would be needed—but not today.
The meager light wavered, casting long, distorted shadows on the cavern walls. "Goodnight, Dad," she murmured. For the slaves, trapped in eternal twilight, day and night were indistinguishable. They slept during the blazing surface hours, finding respite in the earth’s cool embrace. The rhythm of the world above was a distant echo, its meaning lost in the darkness. Talitha longed for a glimpse of that world she had only heard whispered about—a world bathed in sunlight, a world of freedom.
His fatigued response was a guttural grunt. Tomorrow, the cycle would repeat. Their daily gear: cloth masks, lanterns, and pickaxes. Their daily routine: torture.