The diver's sin, the sleeper wakes

Darkness.

It had no shape, no sound, no time.

And yet, Benjamin felt motion—as if he were drifting through the void, being carried by a current unseen, an invisible tide pulling him deeper into something vast and ancient.

His body did not exist. His breath was not real.

And yet, he was aware.

Something was tugging at him.

The dream sped up.

---

He saw Kaarith, once a being of light, now a creature of shadows.

The Itharim had always witnessed, never acted, never molded. But Kaarith had been different. Curious, bold, reckless. He had been the first to dive into existence, the first to touch the bubbles of creation, to shape them with his own will.

At first, his works were wonders—worlds that sparkled, breathed, shimmered with possibility.

But then…

His joy turned to hunger.

He shaped more.

Twisting, warping, shifting what was once pure into things not meant to be.

And with every distortion, his shame deepened—until shame became something else.

Glee.

---

Then, a new moment.

Time stretched, folded, and in an instant, he saw the Itharim gathered, their songs rising like a celestial tide, rippling through the expanse of pre-existence.

At the center, the light of Asterion, the Unmade, burned bright—not with heat, not with fire, but with presence.

And in that moment, the Maker spoke:

"A new being shall rise."

And Benjamin felt, as if he were standing there himself, the first shaping of mankind—not yet formed, but coming into being.

A creation with agency.

With choice.

With will.

And Kaarith, who had once been alone in his uniqueness, felt something else for the first time.

Jealousy.

This creature would have what he had.

But not as an aberration.

Not as an accident.

As a gift.

---

The dream rushed forward.

Kaarith screaming.

Kaarith shattering his own works in rage.

The Itharim turning on him, their harmony no longer a song of praise but of sorrow, of grief, of condemnation.

And Asterion judged him.

Not with wrath.

Not with fire.

But with finality.

Kaarith was unmade.

Not destroyed—no, that would have been too simple.

Instead, he was cast out, sealed within one of the very bubbles of existence he had twisted, left to drift in the sea of time, his voice forever whispering but unheard, his screams swallowed by silence itself.

And then—

---

Benjamin felt it now.

The pull.

Not from Kaarith. Not from Malachros.

From something else.

His vision blurred, twisted—and suddenly, he was seeing through someone else's eyes.

Not a memory. Not a dream.

Something real.

---

The world was lower, faster, moving on instinct.

Shadows, flickering torchlight, the damp scent of deep stone. The scurry of small creatures, the distant echoes of footsteps in tunnels.

He was seeing through Atty.

He was Atty.

And Atty was moving with purpose.

---

Days had passed.

Yu and Dab had survived.

They had returned to the Academy without Benjamin, without answers, only a single truth—he was gone.

The Academy would not let this go unanswered.

The Chief Sage had granted a scouting mission, led by seasoned Sage Instructors, allowing the students to search for their lost friend under the condition that they did not act recklessly.

They had five days.

Yu and Dab had prepared, planned, their every move calculated.

And then they split.

Yu and Dab went one way.

Atty went another.

Because Atty felt something.

A thread. A presence.

A single, fragile pull in the endless darkness.

---

Atty's form slipped through hidden paths, places no human could go.

He squeezed through cracks, scurried down forgotten tunnels, passing by silent horrors lurking in the deep—Dawads, twisted creatures with sensory whiskers twitching for prey, their razor-sharp mandibles clicking in the stillness.

But Atty was small, quiet, unseen.

He moved through the labyrinth of stone, deeper than any living creature had reason to go.

And then—

He heard them.

Voices.

---

Atty peered from the shadows, his form barely noticeable among the dripping stalactites.

The room beyond was a small alcove, half-carved, half-natural, with a single torch sputtering against the damp.

A group of men in Black Flame fatigues stood there, speaking in low voices.

But Atty's eyes locked onto only one thing.

A young man, lying on a pile of ragged blankets.

His torso bandaged haphazardly, his arms covered in bruises, his face turned away, locked in a sleep that did not seem restful.

But Atty knew him.

Even covered in grime, even battered, even lost in the depths of this underground hell.

Benjamin.

---

Atty moved.

Instinct overtook thought.

He darted forward—

Too fast.

His claws scraped the stone, and one of the guards whipped around.

"—What the hell was that?"

Another turned, eyes narrowing.

Atty barely had time to react before a net snapped over him, dragging him down, entangling him.

Gotcha!

The voice was harsh, triumphant.

Atty flailed, hissing, wings beating against the woven cords.

But it was too late.

Benjamin's body remained still.

He did not wake, did not stir.

Not until—

"Atty!"

Benjamin shot upright, screaming the name.

And the world—both real and dream alike—shattered.

--

The mines groaned like a living beast.

Deep beneath the surface of Khial, where no sunlight could touch, where the air was thick with dust and dampness, the great veins of the world were being stripped bare.

Here, men did not speak.

Here, men did not think.

They toiled.

The tunnels stretched endlessly, carved out over centuries, labyrinths within labyrinths, connected to places long abandoned, places long forgotten.

The Black Flame did not build—they infested, digging into the bones of the world, burrowing deeper, creating a kingdom below kingdoms, a world unseen and unwatched by the empires above.

A world ruled by silence.

The sound was constant.

Chains dragging.

Picks striking stone.

The distant drip of water from unseen cracks.

The wheezing of lungs filled with dust and despair.

The workers moved like insects, bent-backed, hollow-eyed, feet dragging through ankle-deep water in some places, across bare rock in others.

Some were men of flesh, beaten down by years of servitude, their hands calloused, their faces gaunt.

Some were little more than ghosts, thralls whose spirits had been crushed completely, their minds empty, their movements purely mechanical.

They had no past. No future.

Only the weight of their chains and the next strike of their pick.

---

The overseers stood in the distance, their forms half-shrouded by torchlight.

Unlike the slaves, they had names.

Unlike the slaves, they had voices.

And unlike the slaves, they did not toil.

They simply watched.

Men in Black Flame insignias, dressed in reinforced dark leathers, their weapons holstered but always close. Some leaned against the stone, arms crossed, some paced along the higher ledges that overlooked the workers.

They did not need to yell.

They did not need to punish.

Not often.

Because the slaves knew better.

The ones who slowed down disappeared.

And no one ever saw them again.

The labor was endless.

The Black Flame mined more than just stone.

Kad veins, the rarest metal in Khial, were extracted from deep within the world's crust, forged into artifacts, weapons, and wealth beyond measure.

But they mined other things too.

Things the workers did not understand.

Stones that pulsed when touched.

Relics buried in places that should not have been touched.

They dug into ruins older than the empires above, breaking into chambers sealed before history had begun.

And when they did, sometimes the workers were forced to pull out bodies.

Things that were not quite human.

Things that should have remained buried.

And when they asked what it was for—if they were foolish enough to ask—the only answer they ever received was the same.

Dig. Or die.

---

One of the workers paused for a moment, wiping sweat from his brow, lifting his head ever so slightly.

His face was gaunt, his cheekbones sharp beneath hollow eyes, his lips cracked from dehydration and exhaustion.

His fingers, wrapped tightly around the pickaxe, had once been unblemished, smooth—the hands of someone who had never known true labor.

Now they were calloused, raw, bloodied from weeks of endless toil.

His hair was longer now, matted with sweat and dirt. His body was thinner, his posture slumped.

He felt nothing.

Not anger.

Not hope.

Not even pain.

He was another worker.

He lifted the pick.

Swung it down.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until, at last, the overseer gave the order.

Shift change.

The worker dropped the pick, shoulders slumping as the new line of slaves took their place.

He turned, moving with the others, silent as a shadow, empty as the stone around him.

And in the dim torchlight, his face was finally seen in full.

Benjamin.