The "Dead Zone" was an aptly named graveyard of basalt and silence. As the stranger's golden silhouette vanished into the upper atmosphere, the air he left behind felt thin and stripped of its essence. Kaelen stood alone, his lungs burning from the ozone that still crackled in the mist. In his arms, the wooden box felt heavier than a mountain. It didn't just sit there; it pulsed. A low, rhythmic vibration hummed through the dark, ancient grain of the wood, vibrating against Kaelen's ribs until his own heart seemed to sync with its beat.
Hurry up.
The stranger's voice was a physical bruise on his mind. Kaelen knew he had mere minutes. Though the "Royals" hadn't sounded a city-wide alarm, the palace was a living organism—it would soon notice the microscopic ripple the stranger had caused. He couldn't go back to the "Kennels." As Grok kept his eyes on him all the time.
He ran. His bare feet slapped against the cold stone of the outer palace walls, staying deep within the jagged shadows of the Great Flue. He bypassed the main kitchens, ducking instead into a narrow, soot-stained service hatch that led downward.
The air grew hotter, thicker, and smelled of scorched iron. This was the Sub-Basement Steam Vents, a labyrinth of rusted pipes and dormant furnaces that bled heat into the palace floors above. It was a place of ghosts and spiders, so miserable and sweltering that even the lowest-tier guards avoided it during their patrols.
Kaelen navigated the maze by touch until he reached a massive, soot-covered furnace that hadn't been lit in a decade. Beneath its iron belly lay a loose floor grate. With a grunt of effort, Kaelen pried the heavy metal aside and lowered the box into the hollow space.
He covered it with a layer of discarded, oily burlap and slid the grate back into place.
It's safe. For now.
He wiped his soot-stained hands on his tunic and scrambled back toward the upper levels, his mind racing. He was a "Dull Root"—a nobody. If he could just act normal, if he could just survive the day.
The noon bell was a funeral toll.
Kaelen reached the Western Scullery breathless, his tunic sticking to his back with sweat. He tried to slip into the line of workers hauling ash-bins, but a shadow stepped out from behind a limestone pillar, blocking his path.
Master Grok.
The Head Servant was a man of excessive proportions, his neck disappearing into rolls of pale fat that seemed to ripple with every movement. He held a willow switch in one hand, tapping it rhythmically against his thigh. He wasn't looking at the other workers; his small, pig-like eyes were fixed entirely on Kaelen.
"Kaelen," Grok said, his voice a silky, dangerous purr. "The sun is at its zenith. The basalt cliffs were supposed to be cleared twenty minutes ago. And yet, I see you standing here with empty hands and a face full of secrets."
"Master Grok... I apologize," Kaelen said, dropping his head immediately. He kept his eyes on Grok's mud-caked boots. "The frost on the cliffs... I slipped. The basalt is slick this morning. It took time to gather the spilled waste."
The rhythmic tapping of the willow switch stopped. The silence in the scullery became deafening. The other workers moved away, their heads down, terrified that Grok's attention might shift to them.
"You slipped," Grok repeated. He stepped closer, the smell of cheap ale and unwashed skin rolling off him. Suddenly, his hand snapped out. He didn't use the switch; he grabbed Kaelen by the hair, yanking his head back with such violence that Kaelen's teeth clicked together.
"You're lying to me, rat," Grok hissed into his ear. "I can smell it. You have the look of a dog that's found a scrap of meat under the table. What were you doing out there? Did you find something?"
"No, Master! Please!" Kaelen gasped, his hands flying up to grasp Grok's wrist, trying to ease the pressure on his scalp. "Nothing! There is nothing but stone and ash!"
Grok's eyes searched Kaelen's face, looking for a crack. For a terrifying second, Kaelen feared the man might see the reflection of the golden box in his pupils. Then, Grok sneered, his grip tightening before he shoved Kaelen away.
Kaelen stumbled, his knees hitting the stone floor. Before he could recover, the willow switch whistled through the air.
CRACK.
The first blow caught him across the shoulders, the thin wood cutting through his tattered tunic like a razor. Kaelen let out a choked cry, curling into a ball.
CRACK. CRACK.
"Lateness is a disease!" Grok shouted, the boredom gone, replaced by the sadistic glee he took in breaking those beneath him. "And I am the only cure! You want to slack off? You want to wander the cliffs like a lord? Fine!"
Grok delivered a final, heavy kick to Kaelen's ribs, knocking the wind out of him. Kaelen lay on the floor, gasping for air, the world spinning in shades of gray and red.
"You will not return to the Kennels tonight, nor will you have your dinner," Grok spat, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. "You will clean the grease-traps in the lower kitchens. All of them. Every pipe, every grate, every drop of filth. If you aren't done by the time the midnight bell rings, I'll have you whipped at the post."
Grok turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Kaelen broken on the cold scullery floor.
Kaelen lay on the stone floor, the metallic taste of blood pooling in his mouth. He watched Master Grok's retreating back—the man walked with a heavy, rhythmic thrum to his step that shouldn't belong to a common laborer.
In the palace of Aethelgard, Grok was more than just a bully; he was an anomaly. His meteoric rise from a simple stable-hand to the Head of Domestic Servants was the talk of the lower wards. The secret lay in his blood—or rather, who his blood was currently sleeping with. Grok's eldest daughter, a woman of sharp beauty and even sharper ambition, had successfully caught the eye of the Crown Prince, becoming one of his favored consorts.
With that royal favor came crumbs of power. The Prince had gifted Grok a handful of low-grade Essence Pills, enough to force his "Dull Roots" to sprout. Within a year, Grok had reached the Skin Tempering Realm. His flesh was now as dense as cured leather, and his strength was three times that of a normal man. It was this borrowed power that made his kicks feel like iron hammers and his arrogance feel like a law.
The reason Grok targetted him the most was because, when Grok was just a worker like Kaelen, the had a minor conflict just for a pair of boots.
Grok's boots were stolen by someone, but without any solid proof, Grok dropped the blame on Kaelen. Later, Kaelen gave Grok his own pair of boots.
A pair of boots were not much for the workers, it just cost them a day or two.
By the end of the week, Kaelen coincidentally found a pair of ruined boots under the bed in Grok's servant quater. The rest is history....
From that day onwards they hate each other to their bones.
Kaelen pushed himself up, his ribs screaming in protest. To the Royals, Grok was a dog. But to the servants, he was a god with a whip.
The hours that followed were a blur of gray sludge and suffocating heat. The grease-traps of the lower kitchens were a nightmare of congealed fat and rotting remains. Kaelen worked in a trance, his hands raw from the caustic lye, his mind tethered only to the memory of the box.
Midnight. I just have to make it to midnight.
By the time the final bell tolled, his body felt like a hollow shell. The kitchen staff had long since departed, leaving the cavernous room in a graveyard silence. Kaelen didn't head for the "Kennels." Instead, he moved toward the sub-basement, his footsteps ghost-light on the stone.
The temperature rose as he descended. The air in the steam vents was a physical pressure, a humid weight that made his breath hitch. He navigated the darkness with the practiced ease of a rat, reaching the corner near the dormant furnace.
He knelt by the iron grate, his fingers trembling as they searched for the notch in the metal.
Almost there.
Then, a faint, rhythmic sound cut through the hiss of the pipes.
Snore. Click. Snore.
Kaelen froze. A pale, sickly green light flickered from behind a pile of coal sacks. It was a Detection Ward—a low-level alarm spell. It hadn't been there eight hours ago. The shimmer of the ward rippled across the very floorboards he needed to tread on.
He pressed his back against the cooling bricks of the furnace, his heart hammering. He peered into the deeper gloom.
A figure was slumped on a wooden stool just three paces from the hiding spot. The green light of the ward reflected off the dull steel of a palace breastplate. A spear leaned haphazardly against the wall, its tip glinting.
It was a Palace Guard.
The man's head was tilted back, his helmet resting on his chest. His breathing was heavy and ragged, smelling of the sour, fermented grain alcohol favored by the night watch. A half-empty ceramic jug sat on the floor by his boots.
Kaelen's blood ran cold. The guard was clearly sleepy—perhaps even drunk—but he was there. The iron grate lay directly in the guard's line of sight. Even in a drunken stupor, the sound of a heavy metal grate scraping against stone would be enough to wake a dead man.
Kaelen looked at the ward, then at the guard, then at the spot where the box lay hidden. The mystery box was inches away, yet it might as well have been on the moon.
The guard shifted, his armor clinking with a sound like a death knell. He let out a low, guttural grunt and began to turn his head toward the furnace.
Kaelen held his breath, the heat of the basement suddenly feeling like ice. He was trapped in the flickering green light, caught between a drunken soldier and a secret that may be his last ray.