The Sinful Young Master

Elsewhere in the barony of Gershoria, a couple of miles from the Kaezhlar clan's estate.

A little girl named Mira's fingers trembled as she clutched her mother's worn skirts, trying to make herself smaller behind the folds of fabric. Her fear of men in those iron suits was palpable, a result of the stories she had heard about the soldiers who enforced the baron's rule with an iron fist. Mira's mother whispered reassuring words, promising to protect her from any harm that may come their way.

The autumn wind whipped through the town square, carrying with it the metallic clang of armour and the muffled sobs of her neighbours.

She could see the knights' boots through the gaps between people's legs—polished black leather that reflected the weak morning sun, moving with mechanical precision as they separated the townspeople into lines.

"Step aside, woman," a gruff voice commanded above her. Mira felt her mother's hands tighten protectively around her shoulders.

Through the gap in her mother's skirts, she could see the knight's gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the steel gleaming with an unnatural blue sheen that marked it as dratium-forged.

"Please, sir," her mother's voice cracked, "she's only eight summers old. Too young for such work."

"Eight is old enough for small tunnels. The baron requires all able hands. Step. Aside." Each word fell like a hammer blow.

Mira felt her mother's fingers dig into her shoulders one last time before slowly, reluctantly, releasing her. As the fabric barrier between her and the knight fell away, Mira found herself staring up at a faceless helmet, its visor etched with the baron's crest—a wolf devouring a dove.

"Name?" the knight demanded, quill hovering over a ledger.

"M-Mira," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the continuing sounds of distress around them.

"Speak up, girl!"

"Mira, sir!" The words burst from her lips as tears spilled down her cheeks. Her mother made a small, broken sound behind her.

"Wagon three," the knight ordered, pointing with his quill. Then the little girl was taken to the wagon and pushed into it. 

The wooden boards were hard beneath her, splinters catching on her dress as she scrambled to peer through the gaps between the other bodies being loaded in with her.

After that, they put her mother in another wagon, separating the children and adults.

Young and old, neighbours she'd known all her life and strangers from the outskirts of town—all pressed together in the stifling space.

A woman who sold flowers in the market was praying quietly, her words a desperate litany.

Two boys not much older than Mira clung to each other, their faces buried in each other's shoulders.

The wagon jerked into motion.

Through the cracks in the wooden sides, Mira clutching her clothes watched her home disappear, the familiar buildings of Baron's Cross growing smaller until they vanished around a bend in the road.

The wheels creaked and groaned as they followed the winding path through the meadow valley, the sweet scent of late summer grass mixing with the sour smell of fear that permeated the wagon.

Hours passed, marked only by the changing angle of sunlight that filtered through the boards.

When they finally stopped, Mira's legs had long since gone numb from being pressed against the hard floor.

The back of the wagon opened with a crash, and knights began pulling people out roughly, shoving them into lines once more.

Before them yawned the mouth of a cave, so vast it seemed to Mira like some giant beast had taken a bite out of the mountainside. Strange blue lights flickered deep within, casting eerie shadows on the rock walls. The air that whispered out of the opening carried an odd metallic taste that made her tongue tingle.

"Move!" A knight's command set the lines in motion.

As they entered the cave, the temperature dropped sharply. Mira wrapped her arms around herself, her thin dress offering little protection against the chill. The tunnel sloped downward, winding deeper into the earth until the entrance was just a distant point of natural light behind them.

The cavern that opened before them stole what little breath remained in Mira's lungs. Veins of blue-white crystal threaded through the walls like frozen lightning, pulsing with an inner light that made the air itself seem to hum.

Dratium—the metal ore that knights and nobles would pay a king's ransom to possess. It was present in these mines in its purest form.

"Tools are against the far wall," a guard barked, his voice echoing off the crystal-studded walls.

"Each person takes a pick and a basket. You dig until your basket is full, then empty it in the carts. Anyone who slacks will be dealt with."

Mira's hands shook as she lifted a pick that was nearly as tall as she was. The wooden handle was smooth with use, but there were dark stains near the head that she tried not to think too hard about. She found a spot along the wall where the crystal veins ran close to the ground, small enough for her to reach.

The work was brutal.

Every swing of the pick sent shocks up her arms. The crystal was harder than normal rock, requiring multiple strikes to chip away even small pieces. Her palms blistered and burst within the first hour, blood making the handle slick and treacherous. Still, she worked, terrified of drawing the attention of the guards who stalked between the workers with whips coiled at their belts.

A cry of pain cut through the steady rhythm of picks striking stone.

Mira looked up to see a man clutching his leg where a fallen rock had struck him. Blood seeped between his fingers as he tried to stand, failed, and collapsed back against the wall.

"Please," he gasped, "I just need a moment to bind it-"

The guard captain's sword cleared its sheath with a sound like tearing silk. "We have no use for broken tools," he said coldly. The blade flashed once in the crystal-light. The man's plea turned to a gurgle, then silence.

"Let this be a lesson," the captain announced to the horrified workers. "You are here to serve the baron's will. Those who cannot serve have no place here. Back to work!"

Mira's pick struck the wall with renewed desperation, her tears falling silently to mix with the rock dust at her feet.

Near her, an old man's voice rose in barely audible prayer: "Great Mother, hear your children's cries. Free us from this darkness. Show mercy to those who suffer in your sight."

The guards either didn't hear or didn't care about his whispered invocation.

The old man continued to work as he prayed, his weathered hands steady on his pick despite the tremor in his voice. "Free us from these clutches of darkness, Great Mother."

Hours bled together in the timeless darkness of mine.

Mira's world narrowed to the rhythmic swing of her pick, the growing weight of her basket, the burning in her muscles, and the constant, gnawing fear. She thought of her mother alone in their small house and wondered if she would ever see her again. The crystal veins pulsed mockingly, their blue light a poor substitute for the sun she already missed with an ache that rivalled her physical pain.

Yet even as despair threatened to overwhelm her, Mira heard the old man's prayers continuing, a quiet defiance in the face of their captivity. Perhaps the Great Mother was listening, counting each tear shed in that terrible place.

She raised her pick again, adding her own silent prayer to the old man's whispered words. The crystal broke free with a sound like breaking glass, its glow momentarily intensifying before fading to match its fellows.

Another piece of their captors' wealth, bought with blood and suffering. Mira dropped it in her basket and struck again, and again, and again, as the darkness pressed closer and the guards' boots echoed off the cavern walls like approaching thunder.