Eliam Svalthren awoke to the same dull, constant pressure crushing his skull. He drew a deep breath, and the air that filled his lungs tasted of dampness, rusted metal, and the stale sweat of confined bodies. He sat up on the tattered fabric that served as his bed, feeling each vertebra in his back protest after another night on the hard rock beneath.
His room, if it could be called that, was nothing more than a cubicle carved from the stone, so low it forced him to stoop when he stood. On rudimentary shelves, his few belongings rested: a half-used oil lamp whose smoke stained the ceiling, a handful of old books with pages swollen from the humidity, and, in a corner, a box of supervision tools he detested touching.
He dressed in the same coarse fabric clothes as always—functional, characterless garments—and fastened the belt from which hung a knife he used more for opening crates than for self-defense. On the makeshift table, the previous day's tally slate awaited him with its usual list of problems: disputes, rationing, and the silent pleas in the eyes of his people. More of the same. Every day was an echo of the one before.
With a sigh that seemed to stir the dust in the air, he left the room and entered the vast, suffocating network of tunnels. He had been a supervisor for just over a month—an ironic title bestowed by his captors, who had deemed him "the most suitable" to keep his own people in line. At first, the weight of controlling more than sixty desperate souls had nearly broken him, but survival has a cruel way of forcing adaptation. Now, the left wing of the labyrinth, where the remnants of his clan and those of their hated rivals, the Thalmyrs, resided, was his responsibility.
The caves were a maze of stone and shadows, some wide and others narrow. Droplets of water dripped from the walls in certain spots, seeping down from the surface and leaving chalky trails that glistened under the torchlight. Every ten meters, the motionless silhouette of a masked guard broke the monotony of the rock. They were rank-and-file guards, the lowest tier, tasked with surveillance and maintaining daily discipline, their presence asphyxiating.
The rank-and-file guard's mask was a smooth, angular design of dull iron, engineered to strip away all humanity and turn its wearer into a faceless monolith. Its structure completely covered their features, leaving only two narrow slits for eyes and extending to the base of the neck, secured with leather straps to ensure no trace of identity could filter through.
After a while, Eliam reached one of the three resting chambers for his people, the Svalthrens. The space, though five times larger than his own room, smelled of grass, with straw mats spread across the floor and a small fire pit in the center that barely served to keep the cold at bay. He knocked his knuckles against the rock wall.
Leaning against the entrance, he watched his people awaken. The torches flickered, their weak, orange light dancing over bodies that moved with the slowness of resignation.
"Good morning. It's time," he said, his voice more cheerful than he actually felt.
The murmurs and groans he received in response were the only form of protest they had left. Grunts, heavy sighs, and vague complaints rippled through the room.
"Morning, Eliam. We're coming," a tired voice called out from the crowd.
Eliam nodded and retreated, letting them prepare. He didn't need to press them; they understood the situation. His people were tough. They had survived the creatures of the Ram, the destruction of their home, and now... this.
After ensuring his clan was stirring, he continued through the network of tunnels until he reached the Thalmyr section. Here, the air was different. It wasn't heavy with resignation, but with a dense, simmering hatred.
"Come on, time to work," he said, trying to sound as cheerful as he had with his own people, but failing to achieve the same effect.
The resentful silence was his only greeting. As their gazes fixed on him, he could see fierce, proud people who hated every second of their existence in this hole—but most of all, they hated that a Svalthren was the one giving them orders. The Thalmyr group was just as diverse as his own; children as young as eight slept among the adults, and nearly all of them were trouble.
A massive man stood up, his shadow, cast by the torchlight, devouring the light. Eliam recognized him instantly: Jhorgan, a war veteran who did not get along with him. In the past, he was one of the soldiers who had served Everard Thalmyr at the Frozen Keep.
A rugged scar ran from his forehead down to his cheek, giving him an even more aggressive look than his physique already conveyed. His eyes were filled with rage. He clenched his fists tightly.
"Why the hell is it always a damned Svalthren telling us what to do?" His voice echoed in the cave, silencing any other murmur.
Eliam didn't flinch. He didn't move a muscle, kept his breathing steady, and held Jhorgan's furious gaze without blinking. It was the same complaint every morning. He understood the hatred, but he had only been a child when it all happened and was not to blame; besides, there were more important things to worry about now.
"I don't make the rules," he replied in a dismissive tone. "If you have a complaint, I can pass it along to one of the guards."
"It's a humiliation!" Jhorgan roared, approaching with deliberate steps, his body vibrating. "After everything they did to us, we have to take orders from one of yours?" Eliam didn't back down. He knew any hint of weakness would be exploited.
The rest of the group watched him with expectation. Some exchanged glances. Others nodded with subtle movements, sharing Jhorgan's resentment. It wasn't just him. All of them carried the same accumulated frustration.
Jhorgan clenched his fists even tighter, his muscles bulging under his skin as if he were about to start a fight, and at that moment, an unnatural silence fell over the cave. The murmurs died instantly.
Eliam saw the fury on Jhorgan's face crack, replaced by a pale, pure fear. It was then that he sensed the presence beside him—a cold shadow that seemed to absorb the torchlight and did not belong to a simple guard. This one wore a black steel mask, which made his second-in-command status among the masked clear. He was tall, slender, and his mere presence radiated a silent danger that smothered the air. These were not simple watchmen; they were the ones who handled transactions and eliminated "problems." He was an Executor.
The Executor wore a dark, heavy suit of hardened leather, reinforced with metal plates on the chest, shoulders, and forearms. The clothing was designed for combat but without hindering movement.
Over his torso, he wore a long, jet-black coat with embroidered edges. The coat reached his mid-thighs and had multiple straps keeping it snug against his body. They didn't usually frequent the barracks unless there was important business to attend to.
At his waist, he carried a shortsword with a carved pommel, a dagger on his right thigh, and a metal cylinder on his belt—an artifact.
The gloves he wore were made of reinforced leather with thick stitching, designed to resist cuts and abrasions. His boots were high, with reinforcements at the front and back.
The masked man advanced calmly, his black mask reflecting the torchlight with a dull sheen. Everyone's expressions had turned into a mixture of respect and fear.
"Is there a problem?" the masked man asked in a low tone.
Jhorgan, who seconds before had been ready to kill, now trembled in silence.
Eliam exhaled slowly. "No, none at all," he replied calmly, without taking his eyes off Jhorgan.
The Executor seemed to weigh the tension in the air for a moment, then addressed the group.
"Five minutes." The order fell like a weight on them all. Jhorgan and the others began to move, some with poorly concealed disgust, but none dared to defy the command.
The masked man gestured for Eliam to follow him. They walked in silence through the passages, away from the others, until they reached a more secluded cave.
Only when they were far enough away did the Executor speak.
"There will be a slave order in one week. You need to prepare your people," he said, before holding out a parchment and giving him the device from his belt. "I know you're just starting out, so I'll ask: do I need to explain how to use this?"
Eliam already knew of this device; it was a signaling artifact the masked ones used to send a signal to nearby guards. The artifact was shaped like a dark metal cylinder, about fifteen centimeters long, with a thickness that fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. On its surface was a small handle, like that of a watch, and in the center was an opaque blue gem. Once the handle was turned, the crystal would emit a brilliant light that would blind those nearby for a few seconds—long enough for the guards to arrive.
"I know how to use it," Eliam replied.
Satisfied with the answer, the Executor let him take both items and left the area, allowing him to inspect the parchment.
Eliam unrolled it with tense fingers, his eyes scanning the names aligned in organized columns for the two clans. Eliam was already familiar with the parchment thanks to his father; it contained the names of different people who were to be purchased by individuals of great wealth.
The first section was manual labor; it contained the names of robust men and women Eliam already knew, selected for heavy work in the mines, cargo transport, or construction on the surface. The demand for slaves for these jobs was constant, and although most of those listed had little affinity for Terum, their strong bodies were enough to secure them a useful position... at least for a while.
Then came combat. In addition to young men and athletic adults, the list included children. The demand for children with potential was high, not only to be trained as gladiators in private arenas but also to be molded from a young age into loyal bodyguards and obedient soldiers. Some were even born with an affinity for Terum, which increased their price. The older men, even if they were not Terum-wielders, were required to guard properties or defend trade routes.
His eyes moved to the next section: sacrifice.
This group consisted mostly of elderly people, too weak or sick to perform any other task. Their fates were the bleakest of all. From what he had overheard from the masked ones, some were used to enhance the abilities of others, forced to be conduits in dark rituals that drained their life energy until they were nothing but empty husks. Others, more unfortunate, were used in experiments designed to develop new applications of Terum, reduced to mere test subjects.
Finally, he reached the last section: pleasure.
Here the range of ages was wider; both men and women were listed. Youths, adults, teenagers, and even children. The demand made no distinction of gender. Eliam swallowed hard and looked away for a moment. He didn't like to think about what would happen to them once they were sold.
However, when he looked back, his eyes fell on a particular name. Eliam recognized it. It was the name of a little girl from the Thalmyr clan. It made his blood boil, and he gripped the parchment so tightly his knuckles went white.
Damned animals, he thought.
As much as he hated this, the truth was he could do nothing; supervisors had no say in the transactions carried out between the high-ranking officers and the buyers. Those who refused their duties or tried to change the system ended up executed and thrown from a cliff; this was the reason Eliam's father and the other supervisors had "resigned" from their posts.
With no other option, he tucked the parchment into his jacket and continued with his work. But the anger never left him. The transaction would occur in two weeks.