He returned to work as usual, striking his vein of coal again and again.
Today was the day—yet it felt ordinary. Nothing was different. The pickaxe felt the same in his hands. The heat still clung to his skin, tickling his nose. Sweat poured from every pore.
The only difference was the heat inside him.
He felt feverish. Too warm. But he kept swinging.
Just before the pickaxe fell, something shifted.
He saw it—the dust particles drifting as the pickaxe cut through the air. He felt the tension in the hilt, in the head of the tool, the precise moment it struck the coal.
Something was wrong.
He swung again.
This time, he could almost see where the coal would break before the pickaxe connected.
The instant it struck, a sharp pain tore through his arms and flooded his entire body.
A grunt escaped him.
The pain was overwhelming. The pickaxe slipped from his hands and crashed to the ground. Even that sound roared like an earthquake inside his skull.
He collapsed, clutching his head, breath coming in ragged gasps.
"What the hell is happening?"
It felt as though the world itself had turned against him.
Every vibration. Every sound. All of it poured into his mind at once, amplified beyond reason. It was as if the entire mine was inside his head—every pickaxe striking his brain over and over.
He could hear everyone. Every movement. Every breath. Each sound separate and distinct.
Too much.
The noise slowly began to thin.
The workers had stopped, staring at the boy sprawled on the ground, hands pressed to his head.
Silence crept back in—until it was shattered.
Heavy footsteps approached. A faint clink of metal followed close behind.
Another set of steps joined them—uneven. One foot heavier than the other.
A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes as consciousness slipped away.
A musky scent of sweat and stone filled his nose.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Everything felt smaller. The rocks pressed in around him, the cave walls seeming closer than before.
Enclosed.
He could hear breathing—everywhere. Before he could even focus, he sensed someone much closer than the rest. The awareness was sharp, painful, and impossible to ignore.
He finally blinked fully awake.
Peg sat beside him.
"What happened?" he asked hoarsely. "Where am I?"
Peg shifted slightly.
The sound alone made him wince.
"Well," Peg said, "I'd say you've had better days. You passed out while working. Lucky for you, I'm the best beggar in the kingdom—it took a lot to convince the knight to let you live. There won't be a second time."
The boy frowned.
He couldn't remember much. Just the swing. The pain. Then waking up here in the cramped quarters.
"I don't remember," he said. "It's… all too much."
Peg watched him closely, something almost gentle in his gaze.
"The worst seems to be over," he said. "You're not screaming or clutching your head like before."
The boy twitched.
Peg's voice sounded painfully clear—too clear. Every syllable cut through the air with precision. He could hear Peg perfectly, even over the breathing of the others, the distant creaking of the cave.
He was aware of everything.
The people. The light. The stone itself groaned around them.
Something had changed. There was no explanation for it, but he knew one thing—
He had undergone his provocation.
And if this was what provocation was, he wished he hadn't.
No strength. No flames. No blessing.
Just pain. A splitting headache. And a strange sensation lingered in his hands.
His dreams of freedom shrivelled under the weight of it.
"I don't know what's happening to me," he whispered.
Peg chuckled softly.
Even that hurt.
"You won't," Peg said. "No one really does. For now, rest. We've got a few hours before work starts again. And don't forget—we're moving in a week."
The forest to the east.
He had almost forgotten. Now it felt frighteningly real.
He needed to adapt—quickly.
Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep.
But he could still hear everything.
Laboured breaths. Bodies shifting. The slow groan of the cave.
Sleep refused to come.