The Prince of The Mine

The air was heavy, thick with dust and sweat, mixed with the sharp scent of damp earth and rusted iron. The mine stretched like an underground labyrinth, its narrow, unstable tunnels held up only by aging wooden beams that creaked ominously with every strike against the rock.

Lighting was scarce—limited to oil lanterns fastened to the walls and makeshift torches that cast flickering shadows over the bent bodies of the workers. Each step on the uneven ground stirred up a fine veil of dust, clinging to the miners' sweat-soaked skin. Exhausted as they were, they never stopped—not even for a second.

The steady rhythm of pickaxes striking stone echoed endlessly, almost hypnotic.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

It was the sound of a world hidden beneath the earth, where sunlight never reached and time seemed to crawl at a different pace.

Amidst it all, Lucian worked without pause.

"One, two... one, two..."

His movements were precise, repetitive, like a soldier in training.

He raised his pickaxe in a fluid motion, pulling the weight up to its peak before letting it crash down with all his strength.

A sharp impact.

His arm muscles tensed, absorbing the shock.

A steady breath.

A swift retreat—then the next strike followed immediately.

"One, two... one, two..."

Lucian never hesitated, never slowed. Each swing carried something beyond mere force—discipline, frustration, endurance.

Around him, other workers carried out their tasks. Some hacked at the rock beside him, their sharp tools breaking apart solid stone. Others sorted through the ore, separating the valuable minerals from the rubble, filling sacks and crates, their arms and faces stained with coal dust like temporary tattoos. And then there were those who carried the heavy loads by hand, for not every section of the mine was privileged with tracks and carts for transport.

That kind of work left most miners with strong, resilient bodies—sculpted by relentless, repetitive labor.

Then, amidst the steady clatter of metal striking stone, a deep, raspy voice broke through.

"The young prince is going all out today…" commented one of the miners, a broad-armed man with a scruffy beard, hoisting a canvas sack over his shoulder as he gathered loose rocks from the ground.

Beside him, a thinner man with a crumpled bandana tied around his head let out a short whistle.

"Hard to believe that six months ago, he barely knew how to hold a pickaxe."

The first miner raised an eyebrow, chuckling. "Barely knew how to hold it? Jon, I think the booze is messing with your memory…"

Jon shrugged, stuffing another rock into his sack.

"I'm serious! First day here, the kid showed up scowling, grumbling like they'd dragged him straight off a throne."

"And they did." Everton laughed, dusting off his hands.

"But even" Everton continued. "With that whole 'I'm better than you' attitude, he grabbed that pickaxe like it was a tree branch. Didn't even seem heavy to him."

Jon snorted, unconvinced. "You're exaggerating. Look at him."

Both men turned their gaze toward Lucian. He hadn't stopped, hadn't slowed—completely absorbed in his work, as if nothing existed beyond the rock in front of him.

"Tell me something, Everton…" Jon nodded toward the boy. "Do you really think that kid is only ten?"

Everton crossed his arms, studying Lucian's posture.

The height, the build, the broad shoulders for someone so young—the muscles more defined than they had any right to be at that age.

"…No," he muttered at last. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he was at least fourteen. Maybe fifteen. Or even older."

Jon chuckled. "I bet even His Highness Leifred looks at him sometimes and wonders if he skipped a few years raising the boy."

The two shared a quiet laugh, while Lucian, oblivious to their words, kept swinging his pickaxe—lost in the only part of the day when he didn't have to think about who he was or who he was supposed to be.

Hours passed, and the stifling heat inside the mine grew even more oppressive, mingling with the thick scent of sweat and iron dust.

Then, the sharp sound of firm claps echoed through the tunnel, followed by a voice—hoarse yet authoritative.

"Alright, good work, everyone!" The voice rang out with strength, rising above the last strikes of the pickaxes.

The man speaking was Simon Hargrove, the mine's chief foreman—a veteran of the trade who knew these underground tunnels better than anyone else.

"You can rest!" he continued, his tone carrying both discipline and respect. "The rest will be handled by those who came in later."

His sharp gaze swept over the room before he pointed toward a group of workers.

"Feldar, Hugh, Morren, Brek...!" he called, his voice firm. "Gather the rocks and ore and take them to the Central Depot. I want everything sorted before the next shift. Move it!"

The men stood up at once, wiping their grime-covered hands on their thick work trousers before starting to collect the loads.

Meanwhile, most of the workers had already slumped onto makeshift seats or sprawled across the smoother stones, catching their breath.

Jon, already seated with a metal lunchbox in his lap, popped open the lid and took a quick bite of his meal, humming in quiet satisfaction.

Then, he frowned and jerked his chin toward something in the distance.

"Hah… we've got a lost cause over there."

Simon followed Jon's gaze, and his face immediately twisted in exasperation.

Lucian hadn't stopped.

"Who the hell thinks they can ignore my order?!" he growled, narrowing his eyes.

Few things irritated him more than someone disregarding the mine's schedule.

In Allytheón, and especially in Magnum, work hours were strictly enforced. Breaking them wasn't just about disobedience—it was a matter of safety. Failing to rest properly could lead to mistakes, and mistakes down here could mean disaster.

Taking a deep breath, Simon clenched his fists and strode toward the stubborn fool who still refused to stop working.

But as he got closer…

"Ah…" Simon's eyes widened in brief surprise.

It was Lucian, the young prince was completely absorbed in his work, the muscles in his arms and shoulders taut as he swung the pickaxe in perfectly measured movements.

"One, two… one, two…"

The rhythm never changed. No hesitation. No mistakes.

Simon paused for a moment, studying the boy more closely.

The steady stance, the controlled strength behind each strike, the neutral, focused—almost calm—expression. It was… strange.

Six months ago, that kid had been nothing short of a walking disaster.

Now…

He looked like just another worker.

"Hmph…" Simon exhaled, calmer now, and placed a hand on Lucian's shoulder.

"Young prince."

Lucian stopped instantly but kept the pickaxe raised, his eyes still locked on the stone in front of him.

"Is it break time already?" he asked, his voice steady.

"Yes."

Without a word, Lucian lowered the pickaxe and set it down gently.

"I didn't even notice…" He let out a quiet sigh, rolling his shoulders to relax. "Thanks again, Simon."

Turning toward the foreman, he gave a brief nod of respect before heading toward the resting area.

"…Don't mention it, young prince," Simon replied automatically.

Deep down, though, Simon still didn't like having Lucian there.

After all, the boy was spoiled, irritable, moody, and a constant source of trouble.

And worse… He was taller than him.

On his very first day, the brat had nearly swung a pickaxe at his head in one of his childish tantrums.

Back then, Simon had sworn it was a mistake to let that kid set foot in the mine.

But time passed…

And things changed.

Lucian stopped yelling at the workers. Stopped bothering those who were just there to do their jobs.

In fact, he barely spoke to anyone. He came and went, often without saying a single word to a soul.

If people didn't know that this shift in behavior was thanks to Prince Leifred's ruthless scolding, they might have believed the boy had been possessed by someone else entirely.

But Simon knew the truth.

That kid hadn't changed. Not really.

He had simply learned—through the harshest way possible—that the world did not revolve around his arrogance.

And for Simon, that alone was progress.

"Haaah…" A long, heavy sigh escaped his lips, the air leaving his lungs as if carrying the weight of years of exhaustion.

He crossed his arms, watching Lucian walk toward the resting area, his expression filled with unspoken thoughts.

"What exactly is His Highness, Prince Leifred, thinking… sending his own son—a child—to work in a place so humble, so filthy, so dangerous?" he murmured to himself, shaking his head.

It wasn't every day that royal blood dirtied their hands with ore dust and hard labor.

And yet, there he was.

And for Simon, that raised far more questions than answers.

"What crime could he have possibly committed?"