Tre was brutally grabbed by the shoulder and thrown to the ground, face down. Unfortunately, as he hit the floor, his mouth opened at just the wrong moment and a good amount of dirt filled it. He choked on the soil and struggled to spit it out, remaining silent and motionless as the man who had earlier knocked him down began tying his hands behind his back. He knew that any attempt to escape or knock out one of the guards would cost him the element of surprise over his captors.
Once they finished binding his hands, he was roughly hauled to his feet—just as violently as he'd been thrown down. When he finally regained his balance, he saw two guards bending over a man he had helped knock down, gently patting him on the face. Despite the man's bloodied face and tear-stained features, he let out soft moans, indicating he had survived Tre's attack. This emboldened his comrades, who hoisted him up by his legs and under his arms, dragging him toward the square from which Tre had desperately tried to escape. They glared at him with pure hatred—likely due to the extra effort they'd had to expend because of him.
Two dead dogs weren't left to each other's devices either. Their heads had been severed, their bellies split open with innards removed, and their lifeless bodies were tossed aside by the largest of the men. "They plan to eat them… Useful even after death…" Tre thought, unshaken by everything he'd endured that day.
Just hours earlier, he had been teaching classes at the university, and now, with his hands still bound, he was being led through a forest, surrounded by armed men and hunting dogs that had turned into prey—and an almost doomed victim, if only he'd had the courage to act against his own upbringing and morality. He suspected that leaving the man alive might bring him more sorrow than relief in the future, though he always hoped that the guard might show some humanity and forgive his unpleasant, accidental collision with a tree—though he doubted it and rather expected revenge.
They were getting closer to the square. Through the trees, a macabre heap of bodies came into view—a sight that had shocked him when he first arrived in this mysterious, bewildering place. Finally, they reached a clearing and stepped into sunlight.
A group of prisoners, which had unexpectedly appeared near the portal through which he had entered this world, still stood in the same spot. Their "warden" was bent over one of the prisoners lying on the ground, struggling with the chain attached to her while muttering incomprehensible words under his breath. Eventually, the chain loosened.
Tre watched as the woman who had tried to warn him was pulled away from the other prisoners. She didn't move, and the guard effortlessly dragged her to a communal, unmarked grave located before the gate. Without any mercy, he stripped her of the rags she wore, and once he was finished, he lifted her with disgust before throwing her onto a pile of bodies.
"She's dead," Tre realized. Her attempt to warn him about the danger had cost her life. Already demoralized by his failed escape, Tre felt even worse now. He didn't know her, yet he felt partially responsible for her death.
After disposing of her body, the man returned to the terrified group, grabbed the chain—which, this time, hadn't budged even an inch—and, dragging the prisoners, moved toward Tre and the horde surrounding him.
A startled guard glanced at the two dead dogs and an unconscious comrade who kept mumbling something, then fixed his gaze on Tre."You're strong, but not good enough!" he shouted in Spanish.
Tre wondered, "What's with all these languages? Why does everyone speak to me in a different language?" After a moment, he concluded that the local tongue was just the unintelligible babble of the guards, while the languages he knew must have been picked up from the prisoners. After all, the woman who had warned him spoke fluent English with no trace of a foreign accent. Tre hadn't expected that the languages he casually learned in his free time would come in so handy.
Dirty clothes from the woman lay discarded on the ground, reeking of unwashed bodies and stained here and there with dried and fresh blood."Change your clothes. These aren't for you," someone ordered.
Tre looked at the discarded garments with a mix of confusion and revulsion. He felt as though he might still sense the warmth of the poor woman who had worn them, yet he was repulsed by the idea of putting them on—especially after noticing a few fleas jumping across the fabric, as if indifferent to the tragic fate of their former owner.
"I have my hands tied," Tre replied, switching to Spanish.
Suddenly, someone struck him on the head with a fist. His head spun, and he fell to his knees. In that moment, one of the guards—the one speaking broken English—cut the rope that had been binding his hands.
"Change your clothes," the guard ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
The blow to his head snapped Tre back to reality. "Idiot, they just killed that woman because she spoke up and pulled the chain. Now is not the time to argue," he thought, resigned.
He began removing his tattered sweater and shirt, leaving his underwear on, not expecting it to be a problem.
"Everything," a man barked in English.
Tre glanced at the faces of the guards and prisoners. The guards looked at him impassively, with a trace of irritation that the procedure was taking too long; some of the prisoners averted their eyes, partly out of pity and partly to give him a modicum of privacy.
A blush of shame spread across Tre's face. He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and with clear reluctance, began to remove his boxer briefs as quickly as possible, trying to save as much dignity as he could. He knew that this whole ordeal, beyond stripping him of his clothes, was meant to humiliate him and show him his place in the line.
He quickly donned the rags left behind by the woman. They were much smaller than his own clothes, with shorts that only reached halfway up his calves. The shirt was very loose, so it wasn't a problem. But as soon as he put them on, he felt insects—creatures that made the rags their home—crawling over him.
"Passing through that gate was supposed to prepare me for this," Tre thought bitterly.
The smell of the clothes gnawed at his nose. He wasn't yet used to such intense aromas, but he had a feeling he'd have to get used to them.
A guard overseeing the prisoners approached him and led him to the rest of the enslaved group."Hands," he ordered, picking up a spare pair of shackles left behind by the woman. With reluctance, Tre obeyed. In the blink of an eye, his hands were chained, and moments later, his legs met the same fate.
Before the rest of the guards finished binding him, they exchanged wary glances. Once the tying was done, they addressed the prisoner in charge with final warning looks directed at Tre, and then they set off toward the high mound, dragging the injured and loudly discussing among themselves. One of the men carrying the dead dogs laughed loudly, pointing at the unconscious colleague.
Tre couldn't bear to watch the incoherent exchange between the tormentors any longer—he and the rest of the prisoners were being led in a different direction.
The path was extremely arduous—each prisoner moved at a different pace; sometimes it felt as if someone else was pulling them, other times as if they were dragging themselves. Fleas bit mercilessly, and the guard, keeping everyone on the chain, hummed cheerfully as if he'd just killed one of the female prisoners moments before.
Despite taking different routes, both groups—the guards and the prisoners—headed toward the mountain. Closer to it, one could see a vast grotto, its edges supported by crude scaffolding to maintain its shape. Near the entrance to the inner part of the mountain stood various tents, all in a sorry state and empty.
A guard turned toward the prisoners and addressed them in his own language. At the end, he looked directly at one of them and nodded in Tre's direction. That prisoner nodded back and then turned toward Tre.
"He says our reward is over. We have to get back to work. You're to learn digging and Cratean language. Say nothing. Just nod and do as we do. After work, ask someone from your tent to explain what's going on here," the prisoner relayed.
Tre looked at a young, gaunt man and noticed the fatigue and fear on his face—fear that Tre might not follow his advice. He couldn't help but notice how their little "walk" was described.
"I wonder if that woman saw this as a reward too," Tre thought. Slowly, he nodded. The young man, relieved, turned back to the guard and assumed a waiting stance. The guard listened with mild curiosity on his face, though he never showed any sign of understanding. Then he smiled and they set off to cover the remaining distance to the cave.
Right at the entrance stood two men, dressed exactly like their "warden.""More guards," Tre thought.
They ordered everyone to stay still, then one of the armed men walked between the prisoners, detaching their chains from the main chain that had brought them here. Although their hands and legs remained bound, the prisoners could now move on their own—albeit not freely.
One by one, they entered the cave, which turned out to be a mine. Each prisoner was handed a pickaxe or a shovel upon entry. If it weren't for archers stationed on wooden towers scattered randomly throughout the mine, the idea of using these tools as weapons might have occurred sooner.
But Tre saw no fighting spirit or defiance on the prisoners' faces."What must they have endured?" he wondered. He planned to use the given tool at the first opportune moment.
"Don't do anything stupid," a young girl, no older than sixteen, whispered to him.
That whisper struck Tre. It frightened him too—he feared the girl might end up like the older woman who had tried to warn him. He decided to hold off on any action until he could understand what was happening. If they worked with pickaxes every day, it meant there was still a chance to use them.
"I must figure out what's going on here and, above all, escape. These people have no scruples," Tre thought as he silently marched with the rest of the prisoners deeper into the mine.
The further they went, the clearer the sound of hammering and striking became. Slowly, they approached its source.
Along the dark wall of the mine, a huge group of prisoners—dressed in the same tattered rags as themselves—worked. There were over five hundred of them. Some struck the wall with pickaxes, others collected a fallen, greenish mineral from the black, crumbled rock, while a few shoveled the debris into baskets that were then carried to massive containers.
"I wasn't just a prisoner," Tre thought, "I'm a slave."