When Izan awoke he was greeted by the smell, it was impossible to escape. Rot, sweat, rust, and that sour smell that burned the back of his throat with every breath. It was thick and stale air as if it had been breathed and rebreathed before ever touching the inside of his lungs. He opened his eyes slowly,cold stone in his back. He lay on the floor of a narrow jail cell that was hardly big enough for a man to stretch out his legs. Two massive iron balls lay beside his feet, both chained tightly to his ankles. His hands were tied behind his neck, thick links of metal biting into his skin every time he squirmed. Chains rattled quietly in the darkness, around him were bodies. Men sprawled against walls or on the floor, some unconscious, some gazing blankly into space. Their eyes became hollow and empty, and their emptiness transcended fatigue. Their faces bore old scars, broken noses, missing teeth, and wounds that had not been mended properly. This wasn't a prison. It was nearer a concentration camp. There were no clocks,no windows, time didn't exist here in hours or days,only routines. Nor did the mountain give a damn what day it was, nor did the guards. At exactly eight in the morning iron doors slammed open. "Breakfast." The word reverberated down the hallway like a cruel joke. A guard shoved bowls of metal through the bars. There was a very thin gray porridge in there, and it smelled faintly of mold. It wasn't intended to nourish, just to keep bodies moving. Just enough energy to swing a pickaxe. Just enough to get through another day. Izan forced himself to eat,every swallow stank of dirt, but he persisted. His body required fuel, whether or not he came out of it very dignified. Around him, some prisoners squabbled over spilled drops and clawed at the stone floor like dogs. Others didn't even reach for their bowls. They were already broken. At nine, the guards came back. Whips cracked against the walls. Chains were unlocked. Prisoners were dragged to their feet and clamped into long lines, when someone stumbled they were quickly struck. The march to the mines began. Out there, the mountain became a complete sight. At the very top was a god fashioned out of stone, the surface of it scarred all over by countless tunnels and scaffolding. From deep cracks in the rock drifted smoke and the clang of metal against stone echoed incessantly as if from inside it were shouting. Inside the mines, Izan soon made out the rules. This place ran on hierarchy, each slave was handed a pickaxe. The tools were old, gnarled, and heavy, their wooden handles torn apart from a lifetime of abuse. No replacements were given. If you broke your tool, your hands worked. Your rank dictated where you worked. The strongest slaves those who had demonstrated their competence with violence were given the best mining sites, veins of gold, rare minerals, and stones worth enough to count. Those men ate better, slept in proximity to heat sources, and were whipped less frequently. Strength bought privilege. Weakness bought suffering. At the very bottom of this hierarchy were the elderly, the injured, and the children. They were sent to tunnels whose stone ran dry and was worthless; the days of working there were worth little to nothing. It was Izan who was sent there: that was the location. With each swing of the pickaxe, the pain echoed up his arms. The stone was not going to crack, it was stubborn. Even after he'd worked hard for hours, the tiny pile at his feet was nearly worthless. It was Izan who, as he moved deeper through that tunnel, witnessed the brutality of that system with his very own eyes. A handful of younger men had surrounded an old couple,clearly husband and wife. Their backs bent, their hands trembling as they held small piles of ore. It was all that they had been able to mine that day. "Hand it over," one of the young men said, smiling. The old man moved forward, setting himself in front of his wife. His legs shook, arms outstretched on her behalf to protect her. "Please," he said softly. "We worked all day." The answer was a fist to his ribs. He dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. Boots came immediately, striking his back, then legs. Every kick landed with dull, sickening noises. His wife screamed, attempting to help him but was shoved aside as if she was nobody. Izan stopped,something twisted in his chest. This wasn't strength, this wasn't survival,this was rot. Farther down the tunnel, leaning leisurely against the stone wall, Izan saw her. She didn't belong here, her clothes were clean,not luxurious, but clear of dirt so that she stood out straight away. She took a languid posture, breathing steadily. Not a single drop of sweat clung to her skin even though she had clearly been working all day. Her beauty was undeniable,but that sure wasn't what immobilized him, It was her aura. She somehow hung heavy, thick, and oppressive in the air like the mountain knew she was even here. She wasn't afraid,she wasn't tired,she was contained.Watching, Izan broke his gaze and moved forward. "Leave him alone," he said. The words echoed louder than he anticipated. Those young men moved slowly, pausing, astonished. Then they laughed. "And who do you think you are?" one of them sneered. Izan didn't answer. He threw himself between them and the old man, unsteady but firm. That was when the air changed,breathing became difficult,not from smoke or dust, but pressure. Invisible and suffocating, Izan felt tightness in his chest, struggling to breathe even more into his lungs. His body stiffened, muscles locking in place. The bullies felt it too, their laughter died instantly, faces paled,knees buckled. No one moved for a moment. Then they backed off, almost as if an unspoken command had been given by someone. Slowly,carefully,as they quickly withdrew without another word, the stolen ore fell to the ground. The pressure vanished,Izan let out a sharp breath, nearly collapsing. He didn't need to look around to know. It was her. Later that evening, when the slaves were being marched back toward the cells, Izan saw her again. She was on a knee beside the old couple, quietly giving them food. The old woman cried as she ate. The old man bowed his head over and over, whispering thanks. Izan slowed, their eyes met, just for a moment, her gaze was sharp, calm, assessing. Then she looked away as if nothing had happened. An unease stirred in her mind. I'm doing too much, her grandfather's voice was clear in the depths. This place is training. Nothing more. Do not involve yourself. No matter what you see. She clenched her fist. The tournament was coming.
