Jhed went with them.
Linea tried to stop him — grabbed his arm, lowered her voice, said his name twice. He kept walking.
If I don't go, they don't eat. It's that simple.
The guard brought him to Mite.
Mite was sitting behind a table, reviewing something, unbothered. He looked up when Jhed entered.
"A new face." He leaned back. "Tell me your name, guest."
"Jhed."
Mite stood and walked toward him slowly, the way people do when they want you to feel the distance closing.
"Why do you have cloth over your face?"
What do I say.
Jhed said nothing.
"Answer me."
Jhed stayed still. Quiet. Eyes forward.
Mite reached for the cloth—
"Sir." A guard entered from behind. "The king is requesting your presence."
A beat of silence.
Mite lowered his hand. "Fine." He turned. "Send this one to the gold mine."
And he was gone.
The mine was underground.
When Jhed saw it for the first time, he stopped walking.
Dozens of men — maybe more — swinging pickaxes in the dark, shoulders bent, moving without pause. The air was thick and close. Torches lined the walls at wide intervals, casting more shadow than light.
Their faces told the whole story. Hollow. Absent. Like men who had stopped expecting anything and were simply waiting.
"Listen carefully." The guard held out a pickaxe. "You work here from now on. Run — you die. Want your freedom — a hundred gold coins. Want food — keep working."
Jhed took the pickaxe.
Do I actually have to do this.
He looked around at the others, moving in that slow, mechanical rhythm.
Running now is pointless. They'll catch me before I reach the surface. Night. I'll go at night, when they're eating. Slip out then.
He found a spot along the wall and started digging.
"Not bad," the man beside him said, watching. "You've done this before?"
"No."
"Hm." The man kept digging. "You'll feel it tomorrow."
"How long do we work?" Jhed asked.
"Until dark."
"And food?"
"At night."
"Nothing at midday?"
The man shook his head. "Midday food goes to the women. Meaning it goes to our families at home. We work so they can eat. We eat when we stop."
So the men dig all day on empty stomachs so their families get one meal. And then the men get one meal at night. And then they come back and do it again.
"And when do we go home?"
The man looked at him sideways.
"When we die."
Jhed's hands tightened on the pickaxe.
He kept digging.
His arms started burning after the first hour. He slowed without meaning to, stopping more than he should, breathing through the effort.
Then a sound — something heavy hitting the ground.
He turned.
A man had collapsed. Just dropped, mid-swing, no warning.
"Get up." A guard stepped over. "Get up or your wife gets nothing tonight."
The man didn't move.
"He's dead," Jhed said quietly, to no one in particular.
"He's dead," the guard agreed, with the same tone he might use to note the weather.
Two guards dragged the body away without ceremony.
"More dead than living in this place," the man beside Jhed muttered.
"This is no different from hell."
"Watch yourself," the man said. "Don't burn out fast. Pace it."
Jhed nodded and kept going.
But in his head, the decision was already made.
I'm not staying here. I'm leaving tonight. Whatever comes after — I'll figure it out.