In The Physical World

The chain, cold and unforgiving, scraped against Sorken's wrist with every step, a dull, rhythmic chafing that echoed the weariness in his bones. The rags he wore, a mockery of clothing, clung to his skin like a second, suffocating layer, each fiber a reminder of what he had lost. He met the gaze of the overseer, a silent challenge in his eyes, a flicker of the man he used to be. "My clothes," he said, his voice rough-edged, barely a whisper against the oppressive air. "Give them back. I can work in them. This… this is an insult." There was a deliberate calmness in his tone, a barely restrained anger that simmered just beneath the surface.

The overseer's lip curled, a slow, deliberate movement that was far more menacing than a shout. "You think you are entitled to anything here, bastard?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous, each word a carefully placed venomous barb. "I give the orders, and you… you obey. Wear the rags, or I will craft new ones from your flesh. Do you understand?" A cruel glint in his eyes punctuated his threat, a silent promise of pain and degradation.

Sorken's muscles tensed, every fiber screaming for release. The desire to lash out, to taste the overseer's blood, was a violent current in his veins. But a colder, more calculating part of his mind whispered restraint. He had seen the casual brutality of these people, the indifference with which they inflicted suffering. They would crush him, without a thought, without a shred of remorse.

Days had passed since the ritual, a disorienting, nightmarish memory that seemed both distant and immediate. He could still feel the echo of the priest's voice, a resonant, almost physical force that had demanded absolute submission. He, Jorah, and Kesta, deemed neither blessed nor entirely useless, had been bartered to the mines, their lives reduced to the ceaseless extraction of gold. He often wondered if the gold itself held any value to them, or if it was simply an exercise in their need to control and subjugate. Sorken felt a profound sense of hollowness. The decision to submit had been pragmatic, a choice made out of desperation, but the cost felt immense, a part of him gone. The need to return to Tamara was a silent, ever-present ache in his chest. 'She won't give up on me,' he thought, 'I have to give her something to come back for.'

The mine, a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the Temple of Zartan, was their prison. Their work was a symphony of stone on stone, hammer on rock, an endless cycle that seemed to dull the mind and crush the spirit. Sorken sometimes felt like the stone itself, hard and unyielding, just enduring. He was starting to wonder, where did the gold come from? How far do these tunnels go? "This place… it's like a tumor on the land, a source of rot that goes on forever." He had almost spoken those words out loud one day and decided to silence himself because of all the potential consequences.

"How can such a vast gold mine exist under a temple?" He had toyed with the question, turning it over in his mind as he swung the heavy hammer. Was the temple built on top of the mine, or was the mine an organic byproduct of the temple's presence? But the question felt dangerous, a whisper of rebellion that might attract unwanted attention. The overseer would be glad to have another reason to hurt them.

Each day was a repetition, a monotonous cycle of brutal labor, a meager ration of soup, and the chilling cold of the stone floor they slept on. He learned his cellmates' names: Jorah, a bear of a man whose eyes held a silent rage, the weight of the world etching lines on his face. Kesta, a boy with eyes that were starting to lose their innocence. 'And I, ' Sorken thought, ' I am…what am I?'. The question had no answer, or perhaps he was too afraid to answer it.

The sun had begun its brutal ascent as they were marched back to the mine, the heat already licking at their exposed skin.

"Move!" the overseer commanded, the crack of his whip a punctuation mark in the oppressive quiet. Sorken's back was an inferno, the pain a familiar companion, but he ignored it and swung the heavy hammer with a practiced ease.

"This stinks," Jorah said, spitting on the ground, the gesture a wordless expression of his disgust. "They call us slaves, treat us like we are nothing, and then those magical apprentices get to eat with golden spoons." His voice was low, a simmering anger barely contained.

Sorken focused on the swing, picturing Tamara, her strength and her will, the promise they shared. 'She is out there, working to change everything,' the thought was almost a mantra now.

"They are probably studying eighteen hours a day," Kesta countered, his face pinched with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. "They are probably thinking that they should never have agreed to such a thing."

Jorah made a guttural sound, a sound that was close to a laugh but held no humor. "Better a sore head than a sore back! I would be sleeping on a stone bed all my life if I had a chance, instead of being here!"

"What about that girl?" Kesta asked, his voice a soft whisper. "The one with us?" The question was like a stone thrown into the silence.

Jorah's features tightened, his eyes clouding over with something that resembled sadness. "What do you think happened to her? What do you think they did to her?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It was hard for us, imagine what she had to go through," he murmured, his voice low and pained.

"Even if we weren't friends," Kesta began, his voice laced with a bitterness, "we belonged to the same world. We went through this together, at least we could have been treated as humans." The bitterness was a new development for him.

The clatter of chains echoed through the quarry as Sorken swung his pickaxe, sweat stinging the fresh welts on his shoulders. Beside him, Jorah spat into the dust. "Another day, another mountain of rocks. Tell me again how serving the gods is a bloody honor?" 

Kesta chuckled darkly, hefting a cracked boulder. "Maybe if you pray hard enough, they'll turn these rags into silk." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Or melt these collars off our necks."

"Save your breath, boy," Jorah muttered, eyeing the overseer's silhouette against the glare of the sun. "Gods don't listen to slaves. Only the whip does." 

Sorken's fingers tightened around his tool. Tamara wouldn't give up. She's out there. She's fighting. The thought anchored him, as it had every hour since the ritual. But doubt gnawed anyway—what if the collar had crushed her spirit too? What if she'd forgotten him?

Kesta nudged him, voice low. "You ever wonder why they bother with the collars? We're half-starved, not wizards." 

Jorah snorted. "They're scared. Even rats bite when cornered." 

"Quiet, maggots!" The overseer's whip split the air, missing Kesta's ear by a hair. "The only magic here is my patience—and it's vanishing." 

Sorken remained silent. They had been reduced to husks, their lives measured in the brutal swing of a hammer. Two weeks, he couldn't believe he had already been here for so long. They knew nothing of the outside world, nothing of their captors, save the brutal overseer and the distant, echoing voice of the priest who had started it all.

Night brought no respite, only the cold floor and the endless, whispered vows that Sorken made to the darkness. "I will see Tamara again. She will find a way. She will set us free. She will be the only one who will find the solution"

The days were filled with the repetitive task of swinging the hammer, each blow a step closer to some unseen, distant freedom. He had to believe in Tamara. Without her, his life was a meaningless exercise in enduring pain. One month has passed already, he thought. He had to keep going.

In his stolen moments, Sorken did his best to understand the situation they found themselves in. How could their minds seamlessly process this strange language? How could humans, plucked from a world without magic, exhibit an affinity for Bloodlines? And who had designed the ritual that had brought them to this place? Who was he to play the role of a pawn?

He learned a few details from eavesdropping on the guards. The diviner, a young priest, had taken a special interest in the newcomers with Bloodline potential. The other piece of information was that Elara had somehow been spared from the labor and was now a maid of her 'husband' one of the three apprentices.

Sorken's heart constricted. 'If he could do it… ' he quickly stopped that thought. He refused to let his thoughts wander there. He had to trust in Tamara.

He had not seen Tamara. He had no idea if she was safe. The lack of news was starting to make him uneasy. 'Just be patient' he repeated to himself.

Few weeks later, the rhythm of their lives was broken.

Jorah was kicking the wall as he got his hands on some news. "Heard the guards laughing about Elara today. Seems her husband parades her around the temple gardens like a pet songbird." 

Kesta's face twisted. "While we rot here." 

Sorken stiffened. "Tamara's smarter than that. She'll find a way." 

"Or die trying," Jorah said, not unkindly. "This place grinds hope to dust, Sorken. Best accept it." 

"Then why bother breathing?" Kesta shot back, knuckles white. "If we're already dead—" 

The cell door slammed open. Overseer Rask loomed, torchlight glinting off his collar's control stone. "On your feet, worms. Priest Soru wants a word." His smile turned vicious. "Pray he's merciful. I certainly wouldn't be." 

They were led down through the tunnels, towards the surface. The thought was almost a shock to Sorken. They hadn't seen the surface in what felt like a lifetime. 'Soru,' Sorken thought, a chill running through him. 'Whatever he wants, it cannot be good.'

'Just let me find a way to get this power, this freedom,' he thought, a cold determination hardening his gaze. 'I will show them what it means to be tortured.' As he turned his head, he found himself in front of a large gate, and the sun was blazing outside. The sudden burst of light felt almost painful.