A few years back, a cruel disease swept through Mayor Guice’s cattle farm. Gwil had been called upon to help deal with the dying things.

The poor creatures couldn’t control their spines, their gaits stiff and twisted. The usually docile animals turned erratic and angry.

This place, the Sty, resembled that fetid pasture.

It reeked of sweat and sick and shit. Even the ones that didn’t glow fully had a tint of blue to their skin, as if suffocating. The sound of their wheezing lungs was head-splitting. The undertone of ceaseless murmuring, so like the Nirva whispers. And the loud, wild ones—they sounded strangled, attempting to stomp out misery with madness.

No one paid him any mind, so Gwil sat and watched.

A few among the horde had strength and sanity for the many. They moved through the heaped bodies, dragging their iron balls, giving out water, treating injuries in the meager ways they could.

Those few spoke louder than necessary, as if to drown out the dismal ambiance. Their voices were soft with sympathy, stony with grit.

Gwil fumed. He wanted to jump out of his skin. Those people were fierce. Strong. That the fruits of their strength were so meager… He couldn’t stand it. Is this really the World?

One man stood out, if only because of his size—broad chested, built like a gorilla. He exceeded even Leira’s willowy height. Gwil would look like a child beside him.

He’d torn off the sleeves of his jumpsuit, and his biceps were nearly as wide as Gwil’s waist. The man had cropped red hair, not orange red, but bright red, like blood or a tomato. He had a small hoop piercing through his septum, like a bull.

No frailty or emaciation there. Gwil might have thought the huge man some thieving tyrant if not for the toothless grins that greeted him as he moved through the mob.

He was young—no older than thirty—and his face would’ve looked gentle were it not so furrowed with worry. The man had amber-colored eyes, like a cat, and though the light in the cavern was dim, his eyes blazed like steel in the forge.

Gwil knew it in his bones—that was no ordinary person. The man’s cold resolve in this wretched place was as striking as Skuld’s grin while riding the stormy sea.

He’d been staring at the man for some time when the sound of the clanging gate filled the cavern.

A few did not even lift their heads, but most were driven into a frenzy. Gwil shifted to crouch on the balls of his feet.

Of the hundred-some slaves, half rushed down the tunnel like stampeding animals. Gwil leaned out to see, but the mob blocked his view. Then he heard the distinct clattering of small pieces of metal.

Food. Only food could do this.

Men and women trickled back into the cavern, each carrying steaming tin cups in both of their cuffed hands.

Awed, Gwil watched them give out food to those who hadn’t gotten up. Heads were cradled, helping hands fed those in need. No arguing. No fighting. Every single person would be fed.

Gwil sat near an old man. By far the oldest prisoner, so old that ancient would be closer to the mark. He hadn’t moved an inch since Gwil had arrived.

“Hey, are you okay?” Gwil asked, tapping him, not entirely sure the man was alive. “Do you want me to get you some food?”

The old man groaned and flapped his hand weakly.

A woman stood nearby, scanning the prisoners like a hawk, holding two cups in her hands.

Spotting them, she approached and got the old man up, helped him eat. Gwil glimpsed the contents of the cup—sludgy, brown stew. If it had a scent, the stench of the Sty dwarfed it.

The woman had matted black hair that didn’t quite reach her shoulders and chalk-white skin. Tattoos covered her face. They went around her eyes and mouth, across her nose.

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What Gwil first thought was a twining, vine-like pattern, he now recognized as a swirling, elegant script that he’d never seen before.

Not just her face, but her neck, too. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her hands and palms, her forearms—all covered with tattooed writing.

Their eyes met, and she held out a cup of stew.

Gwil shook his head.

She clicked her tongue. “I know you’re new. And I know it’s hard. But if you don’t keep up your strength, you’ll spiral.”

“No thank you,” Gwil said. “I’m not hungry.”

The woman scowled. “Don’t make me force it down your-”

“I’ll eat next time,” Gwil said. “I promise.”

She shook her head and stalked off.

Gwil sighed. He wasn’t trying to act tough or make some lofty gesture. His stomach was churning, and he was sure he’d vomit if he tried to eat. It would’ve been unforgiveable to waste something so precious.

The old man’s cup clattered to the ground as he slumped against the wall.

“Feeling a little better?” Gwil asked.

The old man drew a whistling breath, hacked up some phlegm. “W-where did you come from? I’m so sorry. That you wound up here.”

“It’s alright!” Gwil said, forcing a cheerful tone. “Hey old man, don’t worry. I’m gonna help you.”

The old man shook his head.

Gwil nodded. “I am. Promise. What’s your name?”

“Diom.”

Gwil reached over, clasped the man’s fragile, wrinkly hand and shook it. “I’m Gwil. Just a little bit longer, okay?”

“D-did you bring the rain?” Diom rasped. His eyes closed, and a moment later, he began snoring.

Gwil leaned back. With the meal done, a muted stillness blanketed the Sty. Most had laid down to sleep. But the frenzied ones continued to wail.

***

The gate opened again and this time everyone rose. Moving with obedient haste, the slaves filed into rows.

Fear. Only fear could do that.

Gwil fell in at the back of the nearest row. Up the tunnel, gruff voices barked, and whips cracked.

“Move!”

They moved, plodding down the tunnel, one hundred iron balls scraping against the stone.

Gwil passed the big metal pot that must’ve held their stew. It lay on its side. Its interior was foul, burnt and caked with layer upon layer of gunk.

“Halt!”

Gwil went up on his toes to see over the crowd. The front of the pack had reached the threshold of this offshoot. Ahead of them, another group of prisoners crossed through the main tunnel.

He clenched his fists, fingernails stabbing into his palms. More?

When the last of the other group had passed, the lead guard shouted, “Move!”

They entered the main tunnel, followed it deeper into the mines.

The buzzing of their lungs grew more frantic as they lost their breath.

They passed a dozen more offshoots before turning down one. The place was a maze. Gwil couldn’t believe that it was underground, inside the World. They’d tunneled through so much solid rock.

The air grew colder with every step. The rotten meat-and-chemical smell of the Kaia became overwhelming. He’d been queasy since he made it to the Sty.

A dam broke. He stumbled and then sprayed the wall with vomit.

Hands grabbed him, pulled him back in line while keeping him upright. Gwil turned to see the tattooed woman.

“Dipshit,” she said. “I told you to eat.”

“Think that would’ve made it worse,” Gwil mumbled. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Thanks.”

“You’ll get used to it,” she said. “Kaia kills nice and slow.”

“How do you all do this?” Gwil rasped.

The woman’s smile cut like a knife between the ribs. “Thank the Kaia for that, too. It breeds a deranged sort of delirium. Like fever madness, but worse. So, we just keep going and going, until-”

“Halt!”

“I’ll keep an eye on you,” the woman whispered as she went back to her place.

Gwil grimaced. He felt fine now. The first whiff of that stench had crashed into him harder than that idiot’s skimmer.

They’d reached the entrance to another cavern. The entire space shined with bright white light. Even from this distance, Gwil had to squint against it. An array of poles with blocks of beaming lights at their tops, bright as little suns.

Gwil trudged along as the mob trickled into the cavern. He spotted a couple more of the giant machines with drills and blades attached.

Then he realized something that gave him pause. Stalagmites and stalactites jutted from the floor and ceiling. At least parts of these caverns must have been a natural formation. How? Alnam had a few small caves, but nothing like this, not even close.

Dozens of perfectly round holes dimpled the ground. Each was about six meters across. Gwil thought of a wasp hive. He sure hoped there wouldn’t be big wasps down there.

Dusty, glimmering blue haze rose from the holes. Gwil swallowed to force down another surge of nausea.

A host of guards directed the prisoners toward the holes. Gwil reached the front. A masked woman handed him a pickaxe and sent him toward the center of the cavern.

The guard that stood there pointed Gwil to the hole beside him. It would’ve been so easy to push him in.

The pit was about two stories deep. Rickety scaffolding led the way down. More of the bright lights illuminated the bottom, revealing that more tunnels spread out from the bottom of the pit.

Gwil made his way down the creaky structure. The slaves ahead of him went slowly—the steps were crooked and slick.

The fumes made his eyes water. But his tongue had gone numb, and he didn’t taste anything anymore.

Reaching the bottom, his boots sank into something like clay. The muck was frigid—it seemed impossible that it was not frozen solid.

Four tunnels spoked out from the base of the pit. The clinking pickaxes sounded like rain on a metal roof. A guard sent Gwil down one of the paths.