Chapter Two
Ordained By Radiant Scars
“Like infection, we fester, a blight upon you we will be. We are here to devour you, to ingest the very essence of your being. Should you have a glimpse of one coming, know that the multitude lie in wait. Should you see thousands, know that safety is an illusion. This realm awaits our feast and pleasure; This place is ripe for us. From afar we have come to greet you child. We are the abominations under your bed, we are unstoppable and inexorable. Flee if you must, for there is no sanctuary for those whom we mark.” - From the dream of a child, on the darkest night.
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Battered and broken and surrounded by the pitch black, the young girl reached her trembling arm out blindly towards the voice of the nearby women she had heard. She used the last vestiges of her fading strength, all she was able to muster. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest under the weight of utter exhaustion. She was crushed with pain as she sent out her silent plea, begging for her deliverance, her body and spirit on the brink of surrender.
As she grasped for redemption a harrowing call penetrated the storm inside her mind.
“Evrah” it commanded sharply, “Get up”.
Confusion clouded her mind; was he talking to her? Drained and fatigued, she succumbed to weariness, closing her eyes in defeat, and yielded to the embrace of sleep.
. . .
Fourteen Months Later
. . .
“Evrah!” Thunder roared as her blue eyes, dulled by exhaustion, flew open. Dark hair, almost black, clung to her face, wet from the cold rain. Fragmented memories of her first awakening in the Timberlands flickered through her mind. She recalled the searing pain of her arm being dipped into the Johar, the branding that marked her as a slave. They had claimed she attempted to escape. Was that true? She couldn’t remember having a brand before—no one had found one, at least. They said she must have hit her head hard while fleeing. Why had she run? Her life before couldn’t have been worse than her current suffering. Everyone knew the risks of escape; why had she tried?
“Evrah!” Ben’Jari’s urgent voice cut through her disoriented state. “We need to be ready!” His concern was palpable, and Evrah could sense the worry in his tone.
Startled, Evrah leaped to her feet, driven by fear. They could—no, they would—burn her again.
“Are we here?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Ben’Jari’s dark eyes met hers, filled with a mixture of urgency and compassion. The cage came to an abrupt halt. Evrah peered through the bars, struggling to make out their surroundings. The faint light from the halos above barely cut through the night, and the rain pouring through the barred roof soaked her, the frigid mountain air biting at her skin. They had arrived. Despite the cold, Evrah preferred this to their destination; she knew she wouldn’t have another chance to be clean for days.
A Mishtaal approached the cage, his presence imposing. “Alright, out!” he barked. The commanding tone made Evrah’s heart race. He opened the barred door and grabbed the nearest man with a strength that seemed beyond human, hurling him onto the snow-covered ground outside. The sight spurred the others into action, now eager to avoid the Mishtaal’s wrath. Moments later, Evrah jumped out, her bare feet instantly freezing as they touched the snow. She winced at the bite of the cold, hoping they wouldn’t be here long. The freezing rain continued to pour, threatening frostbite.
“Get up!” the Mishtaal yelled at the man he had thrown. The man’s desperate attempt to disobey only fueled the Mishtaal’s anger. As the Mishtaal leaned in to grab him, the man rolled over, and Evrah gasped in shock. The man’s hands were bloody, clutching a large rag that steamed as raindrops hit it. In a desperate move, he used the rag to attack the Mishtaal’s face, and a scream pierced the night. The man tackled the Mishtaal, pinning him down and laughing maniacally as he shouted, “I won’t go back in there, I won’t!” His laughter continued, mingling with the Mishtaal’s screams.
“The rag,” Ben’Jari said, his voice tight with recognition. “It’s been dipped in sa’vis.” His gaze remained fixed on the scene, a mix of horror and grim understanding in his eyes. He trailed off as the other Mishtaal fell to their knees in unison, their collective suffering seemed to amplify the chaos. The Mishtaal who was burning fought to overpower the man with the rag, finally throwing it off his face. Evrah watched closely, horrified as the Mishtaal’s skin was nearly gone, blistered from the burning liquid. But then, as Evrah watched closely, she swore she almost saw it begin to reknit itself. The sight was both mesmerizing and disturbing. The man with the rag tried to back away, but the Mishtaal retrieved a chalk knife from his side, raising it as Evrah turned away. There was no scream; it was over. She glanced back, her heart heavy with an unfamiliar sense of loss. The man with the rag was on the ground, a dagger protruding from his face. She felt a strange connection, a fleeting understanding of his final act of defiance. Evrah tried to feel something more for him; she didn’t know the man’s name, though he had been part of the same crew as she had for almost six months. Although she had never spoken to him, she wanted to mourn for him, to believe that his last stand had meaning, but it didn’t—and she couldn’t. She looked up and saw that the Mishtaal’s skin had now been fully restored. The other Mishtaal, their faces now serene and untroubled, closed in on her group and began to herd them toward the entrance of the subterranean Ohr chambers, all without a word.
Evrah descended the slippery stone steps cautiously, the chill of the mountain air fading as the warmth of the subterranean depths enveloped her. Her heart pounded with each step, her thoughts racing with anxiety and dread. The barriers at the cave's entrance kept most of the melting snow at bay, but water still trickled down the walls, joining the streams flowing off the backs of the shivering, wet slaves. The sound of dripping water mixed with the rhythmic clanking of chains, creating a haunting backdrop that filled the cavern. The constant noise felt like a physical weight pressing down on her, adding to her mounting sense of helplessness.
There were about eight Mishtaal leading them down the main corridor; it was a vast expanse, bustling with activity. Each Mishtaal wore chalk-plate, as well as their own chalk-blade or chalk-axe; their imposing presence made Evrah feel small and vulnerable. Other slave groups were being led down by their own Mishtaal, most likely groups that had arrived in the other carts drawn by the same steam carriage that had brought Evrah’s group. Monorails stretched overhead like veins, and beneath them, carts floated silently, suspended just a foot below the rails by some unseen force. The carts glided smoothly, carrying loads of chalk, alizarin, and other materials deeper into the darkness or toward the surface. The fleeting hum of the rails vibrated through the cavern, adding a low, ominous undertone to the distant voices and shouts from slaves and overseers. Commands and cries echoed, blending with the natural sounds of the cave. Chalk lanterns, hanging every twenty feet, cast a ghostly, flickering light that danced off the walls, illuminating the cavern in patches. The soft glow highlighted the natural beauty of the cave: gray stone shot through with brilliant red veins of Alizarin crystal, sparkling like blood frozen in time, interlaced with strands of white rock that glistened like polished bone.
Despite its harshness, the sight held a strange, morbid allure. Carved-out shafts yawned like open mouths, their jagged edges hinting at the danger within. This was a place of work and death—a living, breathing entity that consumed those who entered. Around thirty slaves moved in Evrah’s group, each step a desperate plea against the oppressive silence. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and fear, remnants of a thousand silent screams. Evrah glanced over, catching the eyes of Toviin, a younger man with long dark hair like hers. Toviin was a larger man, and despite his intimidating features, he looked afraid, his soul betraying him. A flicker of defiance that made Evrah feel a pang of empathy.
As her group was forced deeper into the cave, the rails split, directing them down one of the narrower, twisting paths. The sharp, newly cut edges of the walls loomed close, ready to tear into flesh without mercy. She moved carefully, her medium frame allowing her to navigate the tight space without injury. Others weren’t so fortunate, their arms and legs scraped raw against the jagged stone, leaving smears of blood that the stone walls seemed to absorb eagerly. Toviin stumbled besides Evrah, his hands clutching his bruised and scraped arms. Now closer, Evrah could see the tears he was trying to hide.
After walking down the corridor for a few minutes, Evrah occasionally heard grunts of pain as a few slaves stepped on sharp stones or brushed against the jagged walls. Finally, they arrived at a cavern spacious enough for them all to stand, but dominated by a gaping hole in the center. A single monorail was affixed to the stone ceiling above, plunging into the unknown below. At the top of the rail was a massive block of hardened chalk, anchoring it in place. Evrah knew there would be a similar block at the bottom to stabilize it.
Suspended around the rail in the center of the cavern was a large cylindrical metal platform, its sides encircled with bars. Above this platform, a metal framework comprised the top of the shaft climber. The platform had a single entrance, an open gap about six inches from the edge of the rock ledge. Inside the chamber, affixed to a metal bar near the entrance, was a large steel lever with a chalk knob, currently pointing upward.
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The Mishtaal who had killed the man with the rag ordered them to wait. His presence alone was enough to keep the group silent, the memory of his swift violence still fresh in their minds. Toviin stood close to Evrah and Ben’Jari, they were all relatively close in age, Toviin being the youngest. His body was trembling slightly, Ben’Jari reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Toviin looked up, and did his best to smile back, trying to convince himself that everything would indeed be alright.
“We’re going all the way down this time,” Ben’Jari said, looking back into the dark abyss below. His tone was steady, but Evrah could sense the underlying tension. She could tell he didn’t expect a response. His voice was barely audible over the steady dripping of sa’vis from the stalactite above and the murmurs of other slave groups in the distance.
“Twenty-three,” he said suddenly. Evrah looked up at him, confused. He repeated himself, “Twenty-three. That's how many times I’ve been down there.” His tone carried a weight of resignation, but at the same time seemed to give Toviin some hope as he looked up at Ben’Jari.
Evrah was shocked. Most of the time, they were sent to mine chalk; mining chalk was harsh, but survivable. But Alizarin? Alizarin cut at your very soul. It was rare to meet anyone who had survived ten trips into the Alizarin mines, but twenty-three? She had heard the stories—the ones about people who went mad, who died strange, inexplicable deaths. Tales of bodies found in the depths, bodies that were the wrong color or too heavy to move. These stories whispered through the slave quarters, warnings in the dark.
This was Evrah's first time facing the descent into those unlit pits. The thought made her stomach twist. The Alizarin mines were more than just a physical danger; they were a gateway to a place where reality twisted and the boundaries of the world blurred. The abyss below seemed to breathe, a cold exhalation of air that brushed against her skin like a whisper of dread. Toviin glanced at Evrah slightly shaking, and Evrah could feel the shared fear between them.
“How have you survived?” Toviin asked quietly, his voice barely rising loud enough to hear.
Ben’Jari kept his eyes fixed on the pit. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Whatever is down there, it just doesn’t get me, I suppose.” His words were haunting, a cryptic statement that left more questions than answers. Evrah knew very well what Ben’Jari was referring to. There were whispers among the slaves about creatures called the Phafel, said to roam the countless caverns when men slept. The stories claimed that no one who had ever seen one lived to tell the tale. But Evrah thought these were just stories. After all, most slaves didn’t talk much, perhaps out of fear or a desire to forget. Maybe there were more survivors like Ben’Jari who simply kept their experiences to themselves. She had only known Ben’Jari for a couple of months now. He hadn’t been on her first crew; they were all dead, of course. She didn’t want to think about that. The memory was still too traumatizing.
“Alright, get on,” the lead Mishtaal commanded, waving them toward the shaft climber's entrance. There was a moment of hesitation before the group began to shuffle forward. A young man with short brown hair and a dark expression was the first to step up to the edge. He hesitated briefly, judging the small but unnerving gap, then stepped into the chamber. One by one, the others followed, with Evrah near the back of the group, Ben’Jari and Toviin just behind her. When it was her turn, Evrah closed her eyes, her breathing growing heavy as she stepped toward the edge. Her body began to shake, fear gripping her at the thought of falling into the chasm just to her left. Suddenly, she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. Startled, she opened her eyes, expecting to see Ben’Jari. But it was a Mishtaal, his face a mask of heartless indifference.
“Move it!” he yelled, shoving her forward. Evrah yelped as she stumbled, her head smacking against the cold, hard metal floor of the chamber. Tears sprang to her eyes as she whimpered, pulling herself up into a sitting position. Blood dripped from her forehead, mingling with the dirt on her cheek. Ben’Jari quickly stepped in behind her, offering his hand to help her stand. She brushed her hair out of her face, feeling the warm liquid on her fingertips.
“It’s alright, you’re alright,” Ben’Jari said, his voice steady. “I’ve got you.” His calm reassurance was a lifeline she didn’t know she needed.
As the rest of their group including Torviin climbed aboard, Evrah could hear quiet sniffling from a few others. Her head was still ringing, but the presence of Ben’Jari helped her stay standing. The Mishtaal, with their chalk blades drawn, boarded after them, positioning themselves in a line, faces set and weapons ready. The lead Mishtaal stepped on last, reaching for the lever. He grasped it with both hands, pulling hard. At first, it resisted, but then, with a groan, it gave way. The shaft climber began its slow descent into the darkness below, the world above slipping away as they plunged deeper into the depths of the cavern.
After a short time, the shaft climber came to a halt with a metallic clang that echoed through the darkness. Evrah guessed they were at least three hundred feet below the cavern above. This was where they would find the large deposits of Alizarin crystal, the red veins that ran like blood when you were this deep into the heart of the mountain.
The Mishtaal waited until everyone was off the platform, then began to inspect the group. His eyes moved slowly, deliberately, taking in each exhausted face. The air was heavy with the damp scent of earth and sweat. He spoke, his voice echoing in the cavern, “Seven carts. I want seven carts filled. That should be about two hundred pounds.”
His words hung in the air like a death sentence. The slaves exchanged nervous glances. Two hundred pounds in five days—it was an impossible task.
“If you fail,” the Mishtaal continued, his voice turning sharper, “four of you will suffer. Four of you will die. Vescarion.”
Gasps filled the cavern. Even the Mishtaal’s own kind, standing guard around the perimeter of the platform, seemed to stiffen at his words. Vescarion. The sa’vis was feared for good reason. To be burned by its acidic touch was one thing, but to be submerged in it meant a death so excruciating that even the thought of it made Evrah’s stomach churn.
The Mishtaal’s gaze moved across the group, as if savoring the terror in their eyes. He began walking slowly around the cluster of slaves, eyes scanning each terrified face. “First,” he said, pointing to a tall man with a jagged scar running down his left arm, “you.” The man visibly paled, his lips parting in silent protest.
“Second,” the Mishtaal continued, his finger moving to a woman with brown, matted hair. She clutched her shirt, eyes wide with panic, her body trembling as she tried to hold herself together.
“Third,” he pointed to a young man with a missing ear, a relic from some past punishment. His face fell, and he looked as if he might collapse on the spot.
Evrah’s heart was pounding. Her breath was coming in shallow gasps. The Mishtaal’s gaze slid over the group, and Evrah’s world seemed to slow. His eyes locked onto hers. She could see the decision in them before his finger rose. The anticipation was a weight, pressing down on her, each second stretching into an eternity. She wanted to run, to hide, but she couldn’t move. Time slowed to a crawl as his finger extended, pointing directly at her.
“Fourth,” he said, his voice as final as a slammed door, “you.”
The world around her blurred, her mind screaming in panic. It was as if the air itself thickened, pressing in on her from all sides. She tried to breathe, but each inhale caught in her throat, trapped by the weight of what had just been said. She was one of the chosen four, marked for death if they failed. The cavern felt like it was closing in, the darkness suffocating.
Satisfied with his declarations, the Mishtaal turned back to the platform. They moved with an eerie calmness, leaving a sack of what was most likely stale bread and skins of alcohol on the ground. Of course, it wouldn’t be water—at least, not at this time of year. The lead Mishtaal stepped back onto the shaft climber and grasped the lever with both hands, muscles straining as he attempted to push it back up. At first, the lever resisted, holding its position. Some of the other Mishtaal slouched, shoulders drooping, while another coughed harshly, the sound echoing through the cavern, and a third wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes glassy. The lead Mishtaal grunted with effort, his body shaking as he applied more force. Suddenly, the lever gave way with a sharp snap, springing back into position. The platform shuddered, then began to rise, pulling the Mishtaal up and away from the darkness below. No one from the group went with them; they were left alone in the depths of the mountain. The grinding sound of the shaft climber resonating through the cavern, fading slowly as the platform ascended. The shadows seemed to close in around Evrah, heavy and oppressive.
Evrah’s panic intensified as the distance between her and the platform grew. She was trapped down here, with the cold stone beneath her feet and the impossible task ahead. Her breath came in short gasps, her heart pounding against her chest. She turned around, her eyes darting through the gloom. Desperately, she lifted her chalk lantern higher, its brighter light pushing back the shadows just enough to see the faces of her fellow slaves. Their expressions mirrored her own: fear, hopelessness, and a sense of impending doom. She turned again to find Ben’Jari. His eyes, usually so full of resolve, were now wide with terror. He looked directly into her eyes, and for a moment, she saw beyond his usual stoic facade. His dread was palpable, his breaths coming in shallow, rapid bursts. She could see the unshed tears glistening in his eyes, his expression a desperate mix of anxiety.
In the distance, the cavern stretched into an abyss, lit only by the faint red-white glow from the distant veins of Alizarin. They would have to go out in different directions to find it. Evrah’s gaze flickered to Torviin, he stood near her his face pale and eyes wide with horror. He mouthed the words “I’m sorry” to her as the floodgates opened and tears started to fall down his cheeks. Evrah's hands shook as she clutched her lantern and chalk-pick, the weak warmth of the light offering little comfort against the overwhelming darkness that lay ahead. The echoes of the Mishtaal's voice faded, replaced by the sound of her own ragged breathing. There was no way out, no escape from the task that had been set before them. Swallowing her trepidation, Evrah tightened her grip on her chalk-pick and lifted her lantern higher, taking a step forward into the cavern. Alone, she might have been doomed to the abyss, but in the face of darkness, she would not stand as one, but as a beacon for those who could not fall. She would seek out the Alizarin. For there was no other choice but to rise, for herself and for those who were marked to die. Evrah turned to the group who lay motionless and spoke aloud, “Our survival is not a choice; it is a promise we make to each other. I will not give up, for every life here matters, and I will fight for each of us.” With that she moved into the distance as the shadows gathered around her, the faint glow of her lantern marking her passage through the dark.