The city of the canyon had no name on maps.
Hidden within the northernmost reaches of the Eastern Empire of Sharun, it was carved into the great desert ravine that split the land like an old scar. Few had ever seen it, and fewer still had left it alive. To the south, across the vast dunes of Ashar, lay the heart of the empire, where cities thrived under the rule of the imperial courts and the Sages watched from their Academy. To the north, beyond the jagged peaks of the Dunvel Mountains, stretched the barren, war-torn lands of Samel, a rival empire built on conquest and steel. The Stone Crown, an enormous mountain with a serrated peak like the fangs of some long-dead beast, loomed over it all—a natural fortress where the Black Flame had built their mines. A kingdom beneath the earth, where no sunlight reached.
--
The world had narrowed to a single rhythm.
Pick. Swing. Strike.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Benjamin was not there anymore. Not truly. His body moved, but he did not move it. His breath was there, but he did not breathe it.
He was just watching, floating somewhere beyond himself, as if his existence had been peeled away, leaving only a hollow husk to toil in the depths of the Stone Crown.
He had no past.
No future.
Only now.
And even that was slipping.
---
He did not feel the pick slipping from his fingers.
Did not notice the burning in his legs as his steps dragged, slower and slower, until finally—he simply stopped.
He stood there, arms limp, eyes unfocused, staring into the darkness of the mines as if waiting for it to swallow him.
He had forgotten to eat the day before.
Had forgotten to drink.
Had forgotten everything except the weight of the pickaxe and the hollow ache inside him.
Then—a boot to the ribs.
He felt the impact before the pain registered, sending him sprawling onto the jagged stone floor. Dust filled his throat as laughter echoed around him.
"You finally break, 199?" The voice was harsh, amused, the accent thick with Black Flame dialect.
Benjamin lay where he fell, motionless.
The guard crouched beside him, fingers grabbing a fistful of his sweat-matted hair, yanking his head up to meet his gaze.
There was nothing in Benjamin's eyes.
Just an empty abyss.
The guard clicked his tongue.
"Not even a flinch," he mused. "Shame. We like it better when you scream."
Benjamin did not respond.
The guard's smirk twitched into irritation.
"Maybe this will help."
Then came the fist, sharp and cruel, smashing into Benjamin's face. His head snapped sideways, blood spattering the dirt.
Still, he did not react.
No wince.
No sound.
Just silence.
And somehow, that enraged the guard more than screaming ever could.
"Pathetic," he spat, kicking him again before turning away. "Clean this up."
---
They came when the guards left.
Two figures, barely more than shadows in the dim torchlight.
One knelt beside him, a woman, her black hair hanging in tangled strands over her hollow green eyes.
The other, a man, broad-shouldered but with the same empty look, streaks of gray in his hair despite his youth.
They had no names.
Only numbers.
"199," the woman murmured. "You have to eat."
Benjamin stared past her, as if she were smoke.
The man exhaled sharply. "He's too far gone."
The woman ignored him, breaking off a piece of hard, stale bread, pressing it to Benjamin's lips.
"Eat," she said again. "Or you'll be dead by tomorrow."
His lips did not part.
The woman's brows furrowed—a flicker of something beyond the void, some remnant of a person she had once been.
"Don't make me force you," she said flatly.
Benjamin blinked.
Not because of her words.
But because she spoke at all.
Three years.
Three years among the thralls, and this was the first time someone had spoken to him as a person.
Not a guard.
Not a number.
A person.
He swallowed. His throat was raw, sandpaper against itself, but finally, he took the bread and chewed.
The woman nodded.
The man watched, arms crossed. "About time."
Still, Benjamin did not speak.
Not yet.
But something shifted.
A crack in the emptiness.
---
Fragments of Memory
Days passed.
The woman, 71. The man, 98.
They had names, once. But the Black Flame had taken them. Ripped them away.
Like everything else.
Benjamin did not know them.
But he began to speak.
Slowly. Cautiously.
And in doing so, he remembered.
He remembered Atty.
He did not know where Atty was. If he was alive.
He remembered being moved, transferred from the deep mines of the forest across the endless desert to the city hidden in the canyon—a fortress of shadows buried in the north of the Eastern Empire of Sharun, beyond even the reach of the Sages.
A place where no one found their way out.
---
The Stone Crown mines were crueler than any prison.
And the guards enjoyed it.
One day, while hauling ore through the underground shafts, Benjamin's foot slipped.
The weight toppled, scattering raw Kad stones across the slick stone floor.
A guard immediately descended.
The blow came fast—a crushing fist to his cheek, meant to knock him sprawling.
But this time—
Benjamin did not move.
The guard's knuckles cracked against his skin, his palm flattening against his jaw.
And Benjamin just stood there.
Unmoving.
Unflinching.
Staring.
The guard's smirk flickered.
"What, you broken that badly?" he sneered.
Then he moved again, but before he could land another strike—
71 stepped forward.
She grabbed Benjamin's arm, pulling him back, stepping between them without hesitation.
"Don't," she murmured.
The guard laughed.
"You care about this one, thrall?" He grinned, reaching for her hair. "Maybe we—"
Benjamin moved.
Not by choice.
Not by thought.
His body acted before his mind caught up.
His fist slammed into the guard's face, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
Silence.
The other slaves stared, unmoving, breathless in the thick, suffocating tension.
The guard pushed himself up, fury twisting his features.
"You stupid piece of—"
Benjamin did not stop.
He grabbed the man by the collar and drove his knee into his ribs, over and over, until the sickening snap of bone echoed through the cavern.
Then, a dozen other guards rushed forward, clubs raised.
They fell on him, fists, boots, wood and steel hammering into him like a storm—
But then, before the final blow—
A voice.
Cold. Amused.
Familiar.
"That's enough."
The guards froze.
Through the haze of blood and pain, Benjamin looked up.
A man stood at the edge of the pit, one arm missing, his face still bearing the same mocking smirk as three years ago.
Boyan.
Benjamin stared.
And Boyan grinned.
"There it is," the Warden said. "I was starting to think I'd never see that fire again."
Silence.
Then Boyan's grin widened.
"You're fighting in the arena now."
The guards dragged Benjamin to his knees.
"You refuse?" Boyan gestured toward 71, who was still watching, silent, barely breathing.
"We'll break her instead."
For the first time in three years, Benjamin nodded.
---
No miracles.
No heroes.
No escape.
Just one more fight.
And the first step back toward something real.