The air tasted like iron and ash. Always.
It filled the lungs of No.441 with every breath he took, scraping its way down his throat like rusted nails. It never stopped. Even when he slept, even when he didn't want to breathe anymore — it was still there. That sharp, sour taste of the mines.
"Move."
The word came with a boot. He stumbled forward struggling to keep balance, before falling over.
No.441 rolled to his side and pushed himself up from the dirt. His knees trembled, bones thin under dark, dry skin. No one offered help. The other slaves were already on their feet, already marching in single file toward the quarry pit like silent insects in gray rags.
He joined the line without a sound.
He didn't remember being given a name. Maybe someone had whispered one to him once, a mother, a father — or maybe that was a dream he'd made up to survive. What he did remember was the day they burned the last one who disobeyed. They hadn't screamed. Just dropped to their knees and stayed quiet even as the fire swallowed them.
Since then, No.441 had stopped speaking unless he was told to.
They worked from the third bell to the tenth.
In the pit, the Star Essences were buried in thick veins of stone. They sparkled sometimes — tiny, soft glimmers like fireflies buried in rock. Beautiful. Dangerous. One time, someone tried to pocket a single sliver. Their hand was nailed to the quarry wall before the Overseer even called for the guards.
No.441 didn't steal. He chipped and dug, carried and dumped. Over and over. The tools were dull, the heat oppressive, the dust inescapable.
At midday, water was passed out. One ladle per ten slaves. It always smelled faintly of rot, but it was cold. That was something.
He didn't think. He didn't dream. He just counted. One step, two. One breath, two. One more stone, then another. It helped.
Sometimes, when the Overseers weren't looking, he tried to feel the energy in the air. Astral shards. They were supposed to be everywhere — invisible, flowing, like currents in a river.
He never felt anything.
Once, a girl two pits over said she saw it — a shimmer in the air, like starlight on water. They took her the next day. She didn't return.
So No.441 stopped speaking to anyone. Even his eyes dulled over time. Hope, he realized, got people killed.
At night, they were thrown back into the barracks. No fire, no comfort. Just cold dirt and the groaning of aching bodies lying too close, or too far. The stars overhead flickered behind smoke.
He lay on his side, hands bruised, lips split. Someone cried softly. He didn't turn to look. He didn't remember what his voice sounded like anymore, but sometimes he mouthed words in the dark — words no one taught him.
He didn't know why.
It was on that night, when sleep tried to take him but hunger won instead, that he asked a question. Not out loud. Just inside.
Why am I still alive?
He didn't get an answer.
But he kept breathing.
By the fourth bell, the dust already coated his mouth.
No.441 crouched low in the quarry pit, swinging his pick against the exposed vein of Star Essence. The ore was dull gray on the outside, but inside it glowed faintly blue — not like light, but like heat before it touched flame. The Overseers said it powered the world above, that it was too valuable to be touched with bare hands.
They never said what it did to the lungs.
He coughed quietly, spitting to the side before swinging again.
"Keep moving," one of the guards barked. No.441 didn't look up. The others had already learned — eye contact was a reason to be dragged out for 'discipline.' One boy, younger than him, had looked too long. He hadn't come back.
No.441 moved faster.
The sun was high now. They were supposed to rest at the sixth bell, but no bell came. Sometimes the guards skipped it. Said the quota wasn't met. Said the pit was behind. Said nothing at all.
By the time water was passed around, the ladle didn't reach him. He licked sweat off his lips and kept working.
In the evening, the Overseer came.
He always wore clean robes. Pale blue, with silver bands around the cuffs. His hands were soft. He never touched the ore, never walked into the pit. Just stood at the edge, watching, like a man surveying livestock.
"Three carts short," he said.
Silence.
"Tomorrow, you will meet the quota. Or one of you will be left under the sun."
The guards didn't move. They didn't need to. The threat was enough.
The Overseer turned and left without another word. A moment later, the bell rang — time to return to the barracks.
The walk back was slower. Some limped. Others dragged their feet. No.441 didn't speak, didn't look at anyone. He focused on the steps. Left, right, left.
Inside the barracks, the air was dry. No windows. Just low stone walls and packed bodies. He sat with his back to the corner, knees pulled close to his chest. His hands were cracked. Blood crusted beneath his fingernails.
Someone near the center was wheezing in their sleep. Another curled into the straw and didn't move. He didn't check if they were breathing.
He stared at the ceiling. It wasn't made of stone. Just thick cloth, patched together from whatever they had. Through a gap, he saw the night sky — black, with stars.
They always looked so far away.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would be the same. That's what he told himself.