In this age of toil, Zaric had long understood that life in the mines was no easy path. But never once did it occur to him that he would die in his prime—buried by the same earth that fed his family.That morning had begun like any other: the shift bell clanging, the scent of wet clay and coal smoke. Zaric and two other miners were assigned to open a new tunnel beneath the New Boston ridge. They joked as they swung their picks, the air thick with dust and the echo of hammer on stone. Down here, sunlight was a rumor and safety a matter of faith.At the third watch, Zaric's pick struck something that did not sound like rock.
Clink.The vibration ran up his arm, sharp and strange. He brushed away the silt with a ragged glove—and froze. Nestled in the wall was a dull black orb spherical in shape, faintly glowing beneath a film of dust. It pulsed like a heart."Oi, what's that light?" one of the others called, but before Zaric could answer, the earth gave a low growl. The supports creaked. Then the tunnel collapsed.The roar drowned their shouts. In a single breath, the world turned to darkness and weight.When Zaric awoke, his mouth tasted of dirt. The air was thin, dry as stone powder. He coughed, clawing at the packed mud around him. The lanterns were gone. So were the other miners.He called out—no answer. Only the soft settling of earth, like the mountain's breathing.The shaft had caved in completely. Above and behind him was nothing but a ceiling of crushed timber. The tunnel he'd dug was now his coffin.
A cold tremor of panic climbed his spine. He pressed a hand to the wall—the same wall where the Orb had been, but found only crumbling dirt and broken stone. No orb. No strange warmth.
He tried digging with his bare hands. At first, it was simple desperation—scrabbling, clawing, dragging at the earth in front of his face. But after a moment he realized something was wrong.The dirt shouldn't move this easily.Back in the tunnels, even loose soil had weight. It fought you, stole the strength from your arms. Here, the packed mud parted under his fingers like wet clay, sliding aside with every push and pull. His nails did not tear. His fingers did not bleed. His shoulders burned with effort, but his arms kept going, steady, tireless.His breath should have run out long ago.Time lost meaning. Hunger faded, thirst dulled, but his arms kept moving, guided by the faint warmth spreading from the earth. Each swing carved through earth like butter, and whenever his strength faltered, warmth would spread from his chest, renewing him.He didn't know if hours or days passed. The air grew heavier, yet somehow he lived. When his mind began to blur, a faint draft brushed his face—fresh air.He dug faster, panic and hope tangling in his chest. The mud crumbled away under his hands. His lungs screamed, but his body did not stop.Then he saw it, the faintest shimmer ahead, a pale line cutting through the dark.Light.He clawed toward it like a man reborn, ripping through the final wall of mud until daylight spilled onto his skin. He tumbled forward, gasping, the world blindingly bright.He'd made it out.Zaric fell to his knees, panting. Above him stretched a sky the color of polished stone, clouds rolling like dust storms. Around him lay mounds of dried earth, the remains of old collapses. He looked back—the tunnel he'd crawled from had already half-sunk behind him, forming a mound of wet soil.A mud grave, if not for the fact that he was still breathing.He pressed a trembling hand against his chest, feeling warmth through his shirt.The miners he'd worked beside were nowhere to be found. The tools, the carts, even the sound of the shift bell—all gone. Only endless fields of dirt and dust stretched beyond the ridge, unfamiliar and silent.