Standing on the surface of the massive platform, Siren carefully watched the withered veins beneath its surface. In his already unbound hands rested an amulet that emitted faint pulses of aether.
"How the hell did I get mixed up in all this?!"
Anxiously pondering this, he angrily recalled the actions of Priest Tas. That despicable investigator had decided to use him to get out of a situation he himself had ruined.
For that matter, he himself was hardly in a better position right now. The stocky Rud had taken his rifle and pistol, keeping them close at hand. Meanwhile, the priest was surrounded by enormous ants controlled by the mad mage, who ensured he couldn't escape.
As it turned out, the faint aether glow on the ants' bodies was the result of Lance's work. This was evident from the streams of aether seeping from the back of Evalyn's neck and from the ants, visible to Siren's eyes. The mage was simultaneously controlling the genomorphs and the lifeless girl, finding perverse pleasure in it.
"Ha-a."
Taking a deep breath, Siren looked again at the surface of the iron platform. He had no choice: if he somehow failed to use the key within the next few hours, they'd kill him outright. If he couldn't contain the aether flow, the backlash would kill him.
And if he did manage to open the gates, then...
In truth, he had no idea what would happen to him in that case.
"Come to think of it, maybe I'm the one to blame for everything," Siren thought, recalling how it all began.
***
In one of the old mines, work never ceased, despite all the signs of an imminent collapse. But people chasing easy profit cared nothing for the lives of the slaves.
One such slave was a young man of about nineteen or twenty. His disheveled black hair was long, reaching down to his thin shoulders. Suffering from malnutrition, his build was gaunt, and his height relatively short.
"Get up." Suddenly, the voice of one of the other slaves came from beside him.
Siren wearily opened his eyes, looking around. The darkness hadn't changed over the many years spent underground, remaining just as thick and oppressive. His silver-colored eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light cast by the lanterns, reflecting off the gray walls.
Once, he could distinguish colors just like everyone else, but the infection had taken that ability from him. The blue sky, the light of the scorching sun, and the crimson tongues of flame were now indistinguishable in shades, becoming nothing but impenetrable darkness and cold.
He lay on the cold stone, covered by a ragged cloth. His painfully pale skin made him resemble a walking corpse. His joints creaked, his wrists—bound by clanking chains—ached constantly, but he was used to it. After all these years underground, it had become the norm.
Around him, the other workers were waking up, but they all remained silent. Siren could be considered one of the oldest inhabitants of this mine, yet no one cared about the lives of their fellow sufferers.
Wearily rubbing his wrists, he picked up a pickaxe from the floor. The rough handle slipped in his palm, but he barely felt the pain in his fingers; the calluses covering his hands had long since hardened, no longer causing discomfort.
Another day began with the descent into the tunnel, whose walls were filled with aether ore that glowed in his eyes. Though to others, it probably looked like ordinary crystals.
Although the infection had robbed him of the ability to see colors, in exchange, it had given him a gift—the ability to see the invisible threads of aether. It was thanks to this that Siren had survived so long. Noticing the slightest fluctuations in the air, he had escaped death's grasp more than once by predicting imminent collapses.
Descending the creaking ladder, the young man heard the steps cracking and breaking.
Down below, the air was thick and heavy. Humidity pressed on his chest, and the mixed smell of dust, metal, and sweat assaulted his nose. The dim lantern light barely illuminated the wall. But he didn't need light to see the aether ore.
Siren took his place beside the other infected slaves. There were about thirty of them in total. Crystalline growths were visible on each of their bodies, and from their pores emanated black threads of dead aether, noticeable to the young man's eyes.
Paying them no further attention, he raised the pickaxe and struck the wall. The stone was hard. The first blow left no visible mark on the solid rock. The second only slightly shifted the ore. Finally, the third chipped off a piece. And so it went, again and again. He had long since gotten the hang of it.
Each swing required strength. His shoulders ached, his arms grew numb and sometimes trembled. Countless were the days when he pondered the futility of his life, yet each time, he lacked the courage for a final act.
Occasionally, overseers in thick, impurity-proof uniforms passed by, observing their work with cold, appraising eyes. If the yield was low, a slave would immediately be whipped until he bled, and in case of death, the others were forced to drag the bodies to the surface, where the corpses were burned on pyres.
There were no breaks; each worker forgot about time, snatching bites of dry bread and murky water.
The workday dragged on endlessly. In the mine, there was no concept of day or night—only cold, darkness, and grueling labor.
Finally, a bell rang out, signaling the end of the shift. The dull tolls echoed through the tunnels, at last allowing the exhausted infected to breathe a sigh of relief. Siren set aside his pickaxe, massaging his aching shoulders; his breathing was heavy but familiar to him.
Everyone dispersed slowly, as if in a half-sleep. No one spoke to anyone, trying not to waste energy needlessly.
After some time, Siren returned to his cell—a mere corner of the mine where one could collapse and rest a little. He lay down on the stone and pulled the rag up to his chin, trying to ignore the faint sobbing of the other workers.
In this place, workers weren't divided into classes. Women labored alongside men without issue, only to eventually die from the assaults of others. It wasn't uncommon to see a pregnant woman, whom the overseers, upon discovery, would send to the block. Sometimes, slaves who had long concealed their pregnancies simply died on their own from exhaustion or internal ruptures due to complications.
Whatever the case, tomorrow it would all repeat. The same darkness, the same filth, the same work. No longer worrying, Siren let sleep draw him into the world of dreams.
***
The high ceiling rose upward, vanishing into boundless darkness, like a night sky shrouded in centuries-old dust. It seemed unreachable, cold, and alien, while majestic columns stretched skyward, framing the space like the skeleton of an ancient temple forgotten by time.
Their stone surfaces were etched with mysterious symbols, alien and unknown, as if left by faceless, nameless beings.
The floor beneath his feet was smooth and cold, reflecting the columns like a mirror. Each of Siren's steps created ripples. The circles spreading outward strangely captivated him, as if hypnotizing him with their dance.
He walked in silence, but his body didn't obey, moving on its own, as if guided by another's will. His thoughts clung to one another like rusty chains, refusing to clarify. He didn't try to stop, nor did he look back, watching as the corridor ahead stretched endlessly, leading him farther and farther.
Between the columns loomed stone predatory birds with sharp, almost lifelike eyes. Siren felt their gaze following his every movement. Time here seemed meaningless—minutes stretched infinitely, merging with hours and perhaps years.
Suddenly, from afar came a sharp, cold sound, like metal striking stone. As if someone were dragging chains behind them, the clanging echoed through the emptiness.
Siren froze, feeling his heart pound faster in his chest, but his legs were already quickening, breaking into a run. The sound behind echoed, and it seemed the unknown pursuer was drawing closer and closer.
In one moment, the clang rang out right behind him. Barely turning, he didn't notice the dark veil covering his vision, dragging him into unknown depths.
A sharp crash tore Siren from his sleep. Jolting upright, he clutched at his frantically beating heart in fear.
At that moment, the crash from the corridor drew his attention again. Dense, gray smoke was already billowing through the tunnels. It rolled along the stone corridors like a living creature.
Siren cursed and bolted from his nook. The ground shook beneath his feet; the mine trembled from underground shocks, and muffled, terrifying explosions could be heard in places.
The young man realized what had happened: the mine, deemed unsafe for operation, had finally given way, threatening to bury everyone within its depths.
Infected slaves darted in all directions through the tunnels. They milled about in the smoke, unwittingly fueling the chaos themselves. The dead aether had withered their minds, leaving only madness and residual instincts.
He saw workers rushing in crowds toward the exit, stumbling over one another; some screamed, others wept. Panic engulfed them like an avalanche. Among the slaves, children and elderly could often be seen, trampled under the feet of the frenzied crowd.
At that moment, the ceiling collapsed, burying several unfortunates under heaps of stone and dust.
Siren froze for only an instant before dashing through the smoke in search of an exit.