The tunnel air was colder than the barracks—sharper, biting at the skin like a warning. Frost clung to the ceilings like thorny veins, and old structural beams jutted from the stone like the rib cage of a buried giant.
Five captives waited near the gate.
All worn.
All silent.
A slaver shoved Varik forward. "He's assigned to your line today. Keep him alive. Don't let him get in the way."
No one responded.
They didn't need to.
A man with a long iron hook strapped where his right hand should've been gave Varik a quick glance and then returned to adjusting his scarf.
A woman with a shaved scalp and dark ink spiraling down her neck offered him a short nod.
And at the front—
A tall, older woman.
Lean frame. Weathered face. Lamp in hand.
She looked like a person who had stopped caring what happened to her a long time ago, but whose body refused to follow her wishes.
She jerked her chin. "Name?"
"….Varik."
"You listen well, Varik?" her voice rasped.
"I try to."
"Good. I'm Maira. Stay behind me. Keep pace. Don't talk unless necessary."
She paused. "No one decides when we leave. We work when they say. Understand?"
Varik nodded once.
The gate slammed shut behind them.
The slaver locked it.
And the group began moving.
The tunnels weren't really "corridors." They were old systems—drainage channels, broken transport lines, twisted maintenance shafts—whatever was left behind after rebuilding.
Varik walked near the middle, like Rhem had advised.
Every breath hurt his ribs, but he kept a straight face.
Maira led the group with a flickering lamp, its flame stuttering when the drafts shifted. The others carried tools—scrapers, rods, hooks.
The woman with the shaved head worked beside him.
"Nara," she said simply.
"Varik."
No more needed saying.
Sometimes silence felt safer than small talk.
Every few minutes, Maira tapped a rusted pipe with her staff.
A hollow metallic clang rang through the tunnels.
Varik frowned. "Checking something?"
Nara nodded. "Waste build-up. The tunnel runs waste once a week. The rest of the time the pipes continuously transfer small amounts into a chamber which they let out all at once through the tunnel. If the vibration's wrong… stay back."
Varik exhaled.
"I already know the tunnels still carry waste," he murmured. "And that there are barracks all over the outer sectors. Just don't know exactly which one I'm in."
Maira snorted. "Doesn't matter where. They're all the same."
Varik hesitated. Then asked quietly:
"…Do the one above know about all this?"
Hook-hand barked a dry laugh. "Know? They participated in some of it."
"They buy, too," Nara added. "Some openly. Some quietly."
Maira grazed the wall with her lamp, searching for cracks. "And the Givernment pretends not to notice. Slavery's an inconvenience. Not a crime."
Varik didn't reply.
His jaw tightened, but he remained quiet.
The first work zone was clogged with frost—thick enough that scrapers screeched against it. The crew fanned out, each knowing their part.
Maira: inspect the ceiling.
Nara: clear the lower frost.
Hook-hand: break overhead ice.
Two others: push debris back.
And Varik—
Work where they pointed.
Don't slow down.
He scraped frost until his shoulder burned.
He pried up old boards slick with ice.
He used a long iron rod to shift loose stones without disturbing the larger structures.
His side screamed with each motion, but he didn't complain.
Nara worked beside him—efficient, silent, occasionally glancing up to make sure the ceiling didn't sag more.
The silence continued for hours. You could only hear the sounds of metal scraping.
"Aren't they afraid we'll run away or slack off?" Varik asked, "It's not like we have anyone monitoring us in here."
"Run where?" Nara responded, " We are in the outter sectors, any attempt to escape would just be suicide. They also check the tunnels after so any obvious mess ups or intentional failures would result in the entire group getting punished."
Varik quickly realized how insidiously effective this way of controlling the slaves was. The other members of the group would prevent any attempts of escape or idleness in hopes of saving themselves from facing any punishment because of one persons actions.
Therefore the a monitor would lent be needed because each and every slave themselves would be monitoring each other.
The group continued working, metal scraping and clanging echoed through out the tunnels.
Hook-hand hammered stubborn patches overhead; the tool sparked against metal.
One of the other workers—a younger man maybe in his twenties—pushed a slab of stone too hard and grunted. "Fuckin' thing won't—"
"Don't force it," Maira warned.
He ignored her.
He pushed again.
Varik looked over, instinctively alert.
The ceiling groaned.
Maira's lamp swung violently.
A thin crack ran across the arch.
"MOVE!" she shouted.
Everyone moved.
Everyone—except the young man whose slab suddenly jammed between two stones.
His eyes widened. "Wait—!"
The ceiling dropped.
A massive section of stone crashed down like a hammer from the gods.
Dust exploded outward.
Frost shattered into glittering fragments.
The shockwave knocked Varik sideways.
When the dust cleared—
The young man was crushed beneath the slab.
No sound.
No movement.
Just a crimson smear spreading across the frost.
Nara exhaled sharply. "That's one less for market…"
Hook-hand murmured something under his breath.
Maira checked the ceiling, face grim. "…Mark the loss. We continue."
Varik didn't look away long.
He forced himself to focus.
Forced himself to breathe slowly.
Forced the tremor out of his hands.
Death here wasn't shocking and he had seen his fair share of it, especially recently.
But his body still reacted.
The image of the man's body covered in and splattered reminded him of Gavin.
But he swallowed hard and followed the group.
They continued forward
Where the ceiling fell, a new opening had formed—long, narrow, breathing cold draft into the tunnel.
Maira stared at it.
"…Damn it."
Nara leaned closer, squinting.
Before Varik could ask—
A faint scrape echoed from the opening.
Something shifting deeper inside.
It was the settling of ancient stone.
But it was enough.
"Back," Maira ordered, voice low but sharp. "We're done. We don't work near new fractures."
They retreated quickly.
Varik kept glancing back—
half expecting something to crawl out,
half expecting the ceiling to fall again,
half expecting another sound.
But nothing followed.
Only cold air.
Only the silence of old tunnel systems far deeper than humans ever intended to tread.
The group moved faster on the return trip.
No scraping.
No frost work.
No debris clearing.
Just brisk footsteps ringing through the stone.
At the gate, the slaver waiting there looked irritated. "You're early."
"Ceiling collapse. One casualty," Maira said. "Mark the path unstable."
"That path was marked stable last week."
Maira gave him a dead-eyed stare. "Then mark it unstable this week."
The man stared at her with eyes of poison.
"Let them in," An older voice said. "We can't have too many of them dying so soon. They'll just have to work twice as hard tomorrow."
The slaver rolled his eyes but unlocked the gate.
They were shoved back inside.
Junia perked up as Varik entered, wiping dust from her cheek.
"Well? You look like shit. So I'll assume you survived."
"It was… work," Varik said.
Rhem sighed from his mat. "If you say it like that, it definitely wasn't."
Hook-hand passed by Varik without stopping.
He paused just long enough to mutter:
"…Thanks. For earlier."
Varik nodded.
He didn't say "you're welcome."
He didn't really feel it.
He just accepted the words and moved to his mat.
His ribs throbbed.
Dust clung to his hair.
His hands still shook slightly.
But he didn't lie down.
He sat upright, breathing slow, trying to let the tunnel's cold fade from his bones.
Around him, the barracks settled into its usual sounds—coughing, whispers, scraping bowls, quiet sighs.
Junia swung her legs off her mat, stretching with a wince. "Tomorrow'll be worse. Get so get some sleep."
Varik didn't look over. "Probably."
He leaned back against the cold stone.
No dramatic thoughts.
No grand vows.
Just the exhausted reality of another day survived.
And the quiet, nagging certainty that tomorrow would ask even more of him.