Into the lion's den

The city gates of Melvic loomed large, wrought iron twisted into an intricate pattern that belied its true purpose—to intimidate. Guards in dark uniforms patrolled the entrance, rifles slung across their backs, their eyes sharp and unyielding. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of coal, a constant reminder of the factories churning at the heart of the city.

Darius’s group approached cautiously, their horses’ hooves clattering against the cobblestone road. A line of workers shuffled through the gates, their faces hollow, their bodies hunched under the weight of sacks and tools. The sight was sobering.

“Welcome to Melvic,” Peter muttered, his tone laced with sarcasm.

Darius didn’t reply. His eyes scanned the area, noting the guards’ movements, the checkpoints, the way the workers avoided eye contact with anyone in authority. It was a city built on fear.

“Papers,” a guard barked as they reached the gate.

Logan dismounted first, presenting the forged documents they’d procured in Rossfield. His face remained impassive, but his grip on the reins betrayed his tension.

The guard scrutinized the papers, then glanced up at Logan. “You’re with the livestock shipment?”

“That’s right,” Logan replied gruffly.

The guard hesitated a moment longer before waving them through. “Move along.”

As they passed through the gates, Hans let out a low whistle. “I thought for sure they’d catch us.”

“They still might,” Darius said grimly. “Keep your heads down.”

________________________________________

The city inside was no less oppressive. Narrow streets twisted between tall buildings that seemed to lean inward, their cracked facades barely holding together. Smoke billowed from chimneys, casting everything in a perpetual gray haze. People moved like shadows, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair.

“Feels like a graveyard,” Tom murmured, pulling his cloak tighter around him.

“It’s worse than Rossfield,” Logan said, his tone bitter.

They made their way to the outskirts of the industrial district, and asked around for directions to the wellington estate.

The Wellington estate stretched across the horizon, a sprawling symbol of wealth and power. Its grand house stood tall amidst meticulously maintained fields where workers toiled under the waning light. By the time Darius and the others arrived, dusk had settled, and the workers were finishing for the day, their silhouettes moving like shadows against the amber glow of the sky.

Darius scanned the estate uneasily, his hand tightening on the reins. “This is it?”

Tom hesitated, glancing around. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted.

“What?” Darius turned to him, frowning. “I thought your cousin lives here.”

“She does,” Tom replied sheepishly, “but I’ve never been here. She used to live in Rossfield before they moved her. I haven’t seen her since.”

Logan groaned. “Great. So, we’re walking in blind.”

“Don’t worry,” Tom said confidently, “she’s here. She’ll help us.”

Peter, ever practical, cut in. “We need a plan. If the guards catch us, what’s our move?”

They were all exhausted, their bodies and minds worn from the long journey. Darius exhaled sharply. “First, we find Tom’s cousin. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”

With that, they led their horses into a barn at the edge of the estate, hiding them in the shadows. They moved carefully, their eyes darting for any sign of guards or workers. As they skirted the edge of the main house, they nearly collided with a young woman carrying a basket of linens.

“Who are you?” she shrieked, dropping the basket.

Tom raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Please, we mean no harm. My name is Tom. These are my companions. We’re looking for Avarora. Do you know her?”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you looking for her?”

“I’m her cousin,” Tom explained. “If you take us to her, she’ll vouch for me.”

The girl squinted at him, recognition dawning. “Uncle Tom? From Rossfield?”

Tom blinked. “You know who I am?”

“Yes! My mom talks about you all the time,” she said, her voice softening. “She says you grew up together. I’m Rosie—Avarora’s daughter.”

Tom’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Her daughter? You’re so grown! I didn’t even know she had kids. Is your mom around?”

Rosie glanced toward the main house. “She’s inside, fixing a bath for young Master Henry. Come with me to our quarters—you can wait for her there.”

________________________________________

Rosie led them to a modest but well-kept house near the workers’ quarters. Inside, she offered them water, which they drank greedily, the cool liquid a balm for their parched throats.

“This is a lovely home,” Peter commented, glancing around.

Rosie beamed. “My dad is the foreman. They gave us this house last year when my brother Tyron was born.”

“You have another sibling?” Tom asked, astonished.

“Two,” Rosie said proudly. “Weddy and Tyron. Weddy’s out playing with friends, and Tyron is with my aunt.”

“And your dad?” Tom inquired.

“He’s away,” Rosie replied. “Running an errand for the master. He should be back tomorrow.”

When Avarora finally arrived, her reaction was a mix of surprise and worry. After a brief but emotional reunion with Tom, her expression turned serious.

“Tom, what’s going on? Why are you here with all these men?”

“We need your help,” Tom admitted. “We’re in trouble.”

Avarora’s eyes widened. “Trouble? Do you know what will happen if the master finds out you’re here?”

“We just need a place to stay,” Tom pleaded. “Just until we figure out our next move.”

Avarora sighed, glancing at the weary faces around her. “Fine. You can stay the night, but you’ll need to leave soon. If the guards see strangers around, it won’t end well.”

________________________________________

After a night of much-needed rest, the group awoke to the sound of workers bustling outside. Rosie prepared breakfast, sneaking extra food from the main house. As they ate, they couldn’t help but notice something peculiar about her brothers.

“How come you two look so…” Hans began, his bluntness earning him a sharp elbow from Peter.

“Hans! Mind yourself!” Peter snapped.

Changing the subject, Darius turned to Rosie. “What’s that noise? It’s been going on all night.”

Rosie paused, listening. “The generators. The master has machines in the basement—they need a lot of power. The engineers are always working on them.”

“What kind of machines?” Darius pressed.

“I’m not sure,” Rosie admitted. “Something to do with the mines up north. They take minerals from there to Stock City for repairs and manufacturing. The master oversees everything—he’s a scientist as well as a general.”

Hans whistled. “A man of many hats. Must be exhausting.”

After breakfast, Rosie warned them to stay inside, but the group, thinking the coast was clear, ventured out to sit under the shade of a tree. That’s when they saw him—a man tied to a pole near the fields. His body was battered, his head slumped forward.

Darius rushed to him, his voice urgent. “Hey! Are you okay?”

The man barely stirred, his breaths shallow. His skin was bruised and bloodied, his strength nearly gone.

“Why do they treat people like this?” Darius muttered, his voice thick with anger.

The others approached cautiously, their expressions grim. The man’s condition was a stark reminder of the brutal reality they now faced.

Dark clouds gathered overhead, a storm brewing both in the sky and within Darius’s heart.

“This isn’t just oppression,” he said softly, his voice tinged with fury. “It’s barbarity.”

For Darius, the sight was a turning point. The cleft’s cruelty was no longer an abstract concept—it was real, raw, and staring him in the face.

And as the storm broke, he resolved that the horror would end.