The Miner's Boy [3]

The Miner's Boy [3]

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Alex woke to the sound of raindrops hitting the narrow window of his room in the tavern. The air was cold and damp, and the dim light seeping through the grimy glass cast the room in a dusty, gray haze.

He rose slowly from the bed, preferring the ache in his muscles over the memories of the previous night. Those metal pages that had evaporated in his hands… those words he had written but couldn't recall… It all felt like a bad dream. But the scratches on his palms and the dust clinging to his hair proved it had been real.

Downstairs, the tavern was nearly empty at this early hour. A few figures slumped over tables, asleep, while the barkeep wiped glasses with a dirty rag.

In a corner booth, old Thomas sat sipping his warm drink, a worn-out cigar between his fingers.

"Alex!" Thomas called in his usual raspy voice, waving him over. "Come here, boy. We've got things to discuss."

Alex trudged forward and slumped into the seat across from him. Thomas's sharp eyes studied his face with unusual intensity.

The old man took a long drag from his cigar before exhaling slowly, his gaze fixed on Alex as if weighing his words carefully.

"So, boy…" he said hoarsely, tapping his finger on the wooden table. "Still thinking about working in the mine?"

Alex didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked down at his hands, where the scratches were still visible. Last night had left him unsettled, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the mine or something else entirely.

He lifted his eyes to Thomas, hesitating. "Is the offer still open?"

Thomas let out a short laugh and shook his head. "As long as you've got two hands and two legs, the work never ends. But I won't lie to you—digging's gotten more dangerous… and I reckon you already know that."

Alex held Thomas's gaze for a moment, trying to read between the lines. The old man wasn't just talking about the mine. There was something else… something he wasn't saying outright.

He took a deep breath and asked cautiously, "Why do you say that? Did something new happen down there?"

Thomas rolled his cigar between his fingers before answering. "A man went missing last night."

"Who?" Alex asked, his voice low, as if afraid someone might hear.

Thomas exhaled slowly. "Sam Harvey."

Alex's eyes widened. Sam was one of the most experienced miners—not the type to get into trouble easily.

"Does anyone know what happened to him?"

Thomas shook his head. "Went in with the crew last night and never came out. We sent some men to look for him, but all they found was… his helmet, tossed near one of the old tunnels."

A chill crawled down Alex's spine. Something in Thomas's tone made him feel the old man wasn't telling him everything.

He stared for a few seconds before asking quietly but sharply, "And how do you know all this, Thomas? You weren't there, were you?"

Thomas didn't answer right away. Instead, he took another long drag from his cigar, then exhaled slowly, watching Alex with an inscrutable look.

"In places like this, boy, you don't need to be there to know."

But Alex wasn't convinced. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Don't lie to me, Thomas. You know more than you're saying."

The old man chuckled dryly, but there was no mirth in it. "You're sharper than I expected. That's good… but not everything that's known needs to be said, Alex."

Thomas stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, then leaned in slightly, his voice barely above the sound of the falling rain.

"Listen close, boy," he said slowly, his narrowed eyes fixed on Alex's face. "The mine isn't what it used to be, and the things that disappear down there… never come back."

Alex swallowed hard but didn't look away. "Are you talking about Sam, or are there others?"

Thomas didn't answer immediately. He took a long sip from his cup, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sam wasn't the first, and he won't be the last—unless someone does something before it's too late."

"What do you mean?" Alex pressed, drawn deeper into the conversation.

Thomas sighed heavily, then pointed toward the door. "What I mean, boy, is that you ought to leave. Tonight. Don't ask me why, and don't go looking for answers. Take what you've got and get out of here before your name ends up next on the list."

Alex stood for a moment at the tavern's threshold, his hands trembling as he clutched the heavy leather bag. The cold rain dripped down his face.

"Maybe you're right, Thomas," he whispered at last, his voice nearly lost beneath the distant thunder. "I don't want to die just yet..."

He turned to look at Thomas one last time. The old man stood hunched under the dim tavern light, his eyes reflecting years of wisdom and real fear. No more words were needed.

Alex tightened the strap of his bag over his shoulder, feeling the weight of the small metal pieces he'd collected from the tunnel pressing against his chest.

At the street corner, he suddenly stopped. His hands dug into his inner pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He flipped to a particular page where he'd sketched the strange engravings from the metal book. The intertwined lines resembled a map—but not of any place he knew.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, folding the notebook violently.

The sound of wooden wagon wheels on wet cobblestones made him look up. The elderly driver glanced at him briefly, then jerked his thumb toward the back seat. "Need a ride? Last wagon leaving town before sundown."

Alex looked back at the distant tavern, then at the muddy road leading out of town. In his pocket, the last metal piece from the book seemed to burn.

"How much to Lockwood?" he asked hoarsely.

"Three silvers, lad," the old man answered, adjusting his straw hat.

Alex was about to pay when he heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind. He turned slowly to find Leo standing there, his familiar sword strapped to his back, his eyes locked onto him.

"A ride to Lockwood?" Leo said in his usual tone, not blinking. "I'll share the wagon."

Alex felt his heart pound. What the hell? Why does Leo want to go to Lockwood? In the original story, there was no mention of that town...

"Two seats cost five silvers," the driver said, holding out his gnarled hand.

Alex pulled out three shaky silver coins, while Leo added two more without hesitation. "Let's go," the hero said, stepping smoothly into the wagon.

Alex sat in the farthest corner, his bag wedged between his knees, while Leo settled opposite him, his back against the wooden wall. The silence between them was heavy.

Leo turned his head slowly toward the grimy window, where raindrops reflected on his pale face. His eyes—those golden eyes that usually gleamed like lightning in battle—now looked dull, as if veiled in ash.

His long fingers, which usually gripped his sword hilt with strength, now trembled as they fiddled with the cloth wrapped around his neck.

"Five days..." he muttered hoarsely, as if speaking to himself. "Just five days since that coward made me kneel in the mud."

And then left me to live with this shame.

The rain drummed heavily on the wooden roof of the wagon. Alex sat hunched in his corner, careful to keep his bloodied hand out of sight. The metal piece in his pocket was now cold as ice, contrasting with the throbbing pain in his palm.

Leo, across from him, stared blankly ahead, his golden eyes lifeless. His fingers absently twisted his damp scarf as he pondered what to do next.