Risla ambled up out of the mouth of the mine. Her body weighed on her like a heavy sack. Her head had a lightness to it, and for a moment, as she'd approached the exit, there were little dark spots in her vision. She was covered in layers of soot and grime, muddy and murky with sweat, causing the wounds from her branding to sting.

The Kaine Company had given them a day to recover from the burn wounds. Every day, they were given cream to apply to their backs, to ease the healing process and soothe the pain. Needed their slaves to be hard at work, after all. Had to make their money's worth.

It was hot in there. In the mine. And humid. Every intake of air felt like she was swallowing her own breath, and that of everyone else. Recycling it, over and over, with diminishing returns.

Now she could breathe normally, but only for a short while. By the time she had grown accustomed to the open air, she would be sent back down again.

All of her training, and she hadn't quite been prepared for the rigors of the mine. Not that it mattered. It was all temporary, anyway. A phase in the operation. She just had to make sure when the time came for the next step in the plan, she would be ready. Operational readiness. Preparedness. That meant taking care of herself.

It would be tempting to do what most of the slaves did. The sunlight was oppressive to them, because they were hardly ever exposed to it. So they hid on the dark side of the canyon, away from the light. They embraced the coolness of the shade because it was a break from the omnipresent heat of the mine. But humans weren't meant to go without sunlight. Even the Darovenian variety of human. The sun provided nutrients the human body absorbed through the skin. That had been one of the things she'd learned when preparing for this. If she was to keep her energy up, if she was to be alert and ready, she needed to spend time in the sun.

She approached one of the guards just outside the mine. This one was armed with nothing more than a baton, but there were others with rifles nearby, scanning the crowds of Darovenians exiting through the various mine entrances.

The guard pulled a metal bar off of a rack. There were two sets of cuffs on either end of the bar. Two for the ankles and two for the wrists. After he had finished attaching the cuffs, he gestured to the open canyon, sending her on her way.

It was a rather efficient prison. There were only a handful of elevators, and all of them were operated from above. Only a few people could travel up and down them at a time. There were no stairs or ladders, or any other convenient means of climbing up out of the canyon. At least not for several miles. From what she'd been told. She imagined that escape attempts didn't tend to go well. Only two directions to go, with plenty of intermittent lookout towers along the top of the canyon. Even if you could hide, you would leave a trail. The lightest of footsteps left easily discernible depressions in the dirt and shoal. And what would you eat? What would you drink? How far would you have to go to find passage up out of the canyon? And when you did, would you be too emaciated to make the climb? And even after all that, if you made the climb, where would you go?

Most would try to brave the western range, Risla guessed. It was a long hard road back to Daroven, but what other choice would an escapee have?

Unfortunately, the range west of Tantern was flat and arid, not unlike a desert. It would be hot during the day, depending on the time of year, which would mean an increased demand for water. Dangerous animals prowling at night. And Fort Garund to the northwest, with it's lookouts and scouts. Any slaves who managed to escape Kalana Kaine's clutches and survive the elements would fly straight into the hands of Garund's soldiers, like fish into a net. They would be dragged back, ill-treated the entire way--from what Risla heard--and likely punished in one form or another for their insolence by the Kaine company.

Not that Risla was worried about escape yet. Her ticket out was coming soon. Maybe even in a matter of days. Just had to stay focused.

Water. The urge came strong, shocking her with its intensity. She was so used to being thirsty by now. But seeing the line of slaves leading up to one of the water troughs had brought the awareness screaming back. Her gums and cheeks felt chalky against her tongue.

Water first, then.

The line moved fast as each slave grabbed a tin cup, dipping it in the trough of water. There was a consistent rhythm to the the process. One step. Stop. One step. Stop. Until the Darovenians at the front of the line tried to gulp down the contents of his cup before scooping some more.

The guard standing next to the trough shoved the slave, knocking him and his cup onto the ground, spilling the water.

A rare instance, because most of the workers knew better. But it served as a reminder.

One step. Stop. One step. Stop.

She was beginning to imagine that her tongue felt like sandpaper, coarse and scratchy as she ran it along her inner cheek.

One step.

Her eyes were drawn to the back of the female slave in front of her. A tall woman, with Risla’s face only coming to her upper back, so it was hard to miss the rough, diagonal shredding in her clothing there. Through those gaping rifts in the fabric, Risla could easily see the dark, protruding scars raked across the woman’s back at various angles. Whip scars. Idly, she wondered how the slave had got them. What perceived rebellion might have instigated such an act. But as she considered it, she felt the urge to avert her eyes. It hurt too much to realize that there was little separating her from these people. That such a fate could have befallen her just as easily, were things but a little different. And that there were still so many out there who might still spend the rest of their lives like this.

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But that was why she was here, wasn't she? To stop all this. To put an end to the cycle of slavery and death. What she did here would be the link in a larger chain. One that would envelope the Alveranderan Federation and administer justice for generations of oppression. She had to keep it in perspective.

Wisps of dry dirt twirled on the ground, carried by the onset of a breeze. Curls of Ridla’s hair whipped across her face in the wind, cutting slashes across her vision. Warm gusts of air touched her skin, entering through the holes and tears in her ragged clothes, causing the fabric to flap and snap about. For a few brief intervals, while the wind was at it's strongest, the rank stench of so many sweaty, filthy, unwashed bodies was lifted away. As always, Risla was so accustomed to the smell that she didn't notice it anymore until it was gone. For a brief moment, she felt as if she could take a normal, unimpeded breath again, having forgotten what it was to do so. To smell nothing but the air itself, unmitigated by foul body odor or the ashy, pervasive smell of charred crystal.

Of course, it was just as sudden that the breeze died. And it all came rushing back. Her hair fell from it's wild flails, making limp cascades down her face.

The slave in front of her--the one with the scarred back--took one of the cups, dipped it in the trough, and bowed in a grateful motion to the guard manning it. The guard smirked a little, nodding back to her. His eyes followed her as the slave walked away.

Risla didn't know the guard's name. Watching the water was one of several duties he seemed to have around here, and she saw him often.

He was a tall man. At least a little taller than most, and good head taller than Risla herself. He had dark, wavy hair, almost curly, and ear-length, crawling down the sides of his face and framing grey-green eyes the color of sick.

Usually there was a toll to this line of work. Risla could see it in the faces of most of the guards. They didn't want to be there. They didn't want to treat people this way. And they hated reprimanding the slaves. The paradox, and what Risla found rather interesting about it, was that the more they were forced to mistreat the slaves, the more they seemed to hate the slaves themselves for it. Sometimes they would even act out against them, unprovoked, because of this.

Not so with this one. He required no urging to mishandle people. This man enjoyed his work, straight and simple. He liked subjugating the Darovenians. Shoving the slave earlier who'd tried to grab a second cup of water had put a spark in his eyes that still hadn't gone away.

Risla always made sure to avoid the man as much as she could. Though that wouldn't be possible at the moment. Foregoing water was not an option.

She grabbed one of the cups and dipped it in the trough, filling it to the brim.

As she began to turn, the guard's hand shot out, reaching for her wrist.

Risla's adrenaline spiked. She flinched backward, avoiding the grab and spilling a finger-width of water back into the trough.

She froze, caught by his gaze. Afraid of what might come next.

"That's it?" The guard said. "Nothing to say to me?"

Risla stared back at him. She stopped the words before they passed her lips, rumbling up out of her throat: ‘What would I possibly have to say?’

She was supposed to be grateful. That was the implication. Grateful because, even though she was in chains, even though she was being forced to work twelve hours a day, she was being so graciously offered…water. The bare minimum of what any person needed to survive.

She didn’t need to thank this man. If anything, he should have been thanking her. Her continued health was necessary if the company was to make back its investment in her. To to get the work it needed out of her. If she refused this water, she would be weaker for it. She would opening up herself to the possibility of heatstroke, among other things. These people needed her to drink. This guard had it backwards.

In her mind’s eye, Risla saw herself tipping the cup, dumping the water back into the trough. She imagined how the guard might react. Right now he was regarding her like a work of art, eyes traveling across her body, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

He smells your fear.

Could she make that smirk go away? And could she get away with it? What would he do?

You’re never going to find out, said an inner voice, a calm and focused counterpart. You can’t afford to.

He was still staring at her. Eyeing her up. And she could make him stop. She could even kill him if she needed to, even while bearing these chains. But it would be a small victory. And she wasn’t here for that. She was here to change the future. And that required restraint. And a mastery of her own fear.

Just don't let him touch me.

Except, at some point, she might have to. For the sake of what she was doing here. For the sake of saving the world. But she'd like to avoid it if she could.

She turned back, facing him, and bowed, cradling the cup of water between her palms. When she spoke, the words came out wispy, and dry. Almost indiscernible. "Thank...you."

A big grin arrested the guard's face. "Get along," he said. "That was more than enough homage for me, little girl.” Then, lower, as soon as Risla had begun to walk away. "For now."

Risla took slow, steady steps as she drank. Conserving her strength. Savoring the clear, cool water. The surface of which rippled erratically inside the cup.

She was shaking. That probably wasn’t good.

She found that she’d come to a stop just inside the bar of shadow along one wall of the canyon.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to rest in the shade. Just for a bit.

The air was crisp with every slight breeze. The shoal was cool against her bare toes.

She closed her eyes, feeling the soft wind against her face, like a gentle whisper against her skin.

No.

Her eyes snapped open.

Not yet. It felt too much like giving in. Something she would never do.

She was nothing like these people. Complacent. Scrabbling for scraps and small pleasures. They had forgotten what it had meant to be free, and so easily. Not a single one of the people who’d arrived in the train with her had hardly even put up a fight.

Better to disobey and be punished. To defy the Alveranderans and risk death. Either was preferable to the state of being these Darovenians were in. Neither dead nor living. Merely existing.

Two steps, and Risla was back in the sunlight. There she would stay for the rest of her break.

Within moments of being back under the sun, she was aware of the return of that lightheaded feeling.

Ah well. There were worse things.

As she sipped her water, she gazed down the length of the canyon, her eyes on nothing and no one in particular. When suddenly she saw a familiar figure. Passing through, moving crossways from one side of the canyon to the other.

He was the boy from the train station. But he was also the boy from a world that had not yet arrived. A place with a torrid sky marbled grey and black.

He was the boy from Risla's nightmares.