Chapter 11: Death would be preferable

Mordred felt a powerful hand come down on his shoulder.

- You. Move.

The tone was dry, without appeal.

One of the guards beckoned him forward, and despite the chaos in his mind, his body obeyed before he could think.

He moved forward.

His footsteps echoed faintly on the rough stone floor, each sound seeming louder in the deathly silence that hung over the slaves still present.

The girl... was gone.

She was really gone.

Mordred wanted to turn around, to try and catch one last sign of her presence... but he knew it would be useless.

So he gritted his teeth and moved on.

The slaves designated for the quarry were separated into small groups under the constant watch of the reptilian creatures. They were led out of the barracks, through a long stone corridor where the smell of mold mingled with that of dried blood.

The air was heavy and hard to breathe.

When they finally emerged outside, Mordred squinted, blinded by a raw, burning light.

The sun.

He hadn't realized how much he'd forgotten.

But it wasn't a reassuring light.

It was a merciless sun, high in the sky, pouring crushing heat over a desolate landscape.

Before him was a sight that made his stomach knot.

The quarry stretched for several kilometers, carved out of a rocky cliff. Hundreds of men and women worked tirelessly, cutting stone with rudimentary tools under the watchful eye of dragon guards.

The sound of metal striking rock echoed endlessly, a mechanical, inhuman rhythm.

The ground was dry, cracked and stained with dark marks.

Some slaves wore heavy chains around their ankles, slowing their movements and condemning them to slow, painful progress.

Others...

Others were still.

Some bodies, left on the ground, had not even been removed.

And no one seemed to be paying them the slightest attention.

- Newcomers! You start here.

A guard pushed them towards an open area where several slaves were cutting stone blocks.

Mordred felt a pickaxe being thrown at his feet.

- Work.

He gritted his teeth.

His gaze shifted to the other slaves, some already in agony after just a few hours in this infernal heat.

If he was to survive...

He had no choice.

He picked up the pickaxe.

And he struck.

Mordred could feel every fiber of his body screaming in agony.

Strike. Breathe. Strike. Breathe.

The weight of the pickaxe in his hands was becoming unbearable, his exhausted muscles threatening to give way. His palms were lumpy, open, oozing blood, but he didn't have the luxury of stopping.

No one was stopping.

The air was unbreathable, thick with dust that seeped down his throat and burned his lungs like fire. The stifling heat crushed his shoulders and made every movement even more difficult.

Beside him, other slaves were digging in silence, broken silhouettes, starved bodies flailing in morbid choreography. They were there without being there, their empty eyes staring at the rock as if it were the only thing left in their world.

A dull sound was heard.

Mordred turned his head just in time to see a man collapse to his knees, wheezing.

No...

The others didn't even glance at him. No one tried to help him.

A dragon guard slowly stepped forward. His shadow fell over the unfortunate man, and Mordred held his breath.

The man raised a trembling hand, clutching the guard's boot in a final plea for mercy.

All he got was a grimace of disgust.

- Miserable vermin.

With a sharp blow, the creature crushed his head under his heel.

Cracking sound.

A vile sound, like a nut being cracked between his fingers.

Mordred felt his stomach knot.

This world is a butcher's shop.

- GET BACK TO WORK!" thundered the creature.

Everyone obeyed. No murmur, no cry. The man had just died, and already the ground around him was being dug up again as if nothing had happened.

As for Mordred, he couldn't move. His fingers clenched on the handle of his pickaxe, his gaze fixed on the corpse.

I've got to get out of here.

But how? How can I escape this nightmare?

He gritted his teeth, raised his pickaxe and struck with all his might.

More.

More.

More-

CRAC.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The sound wasn't the usual rock.

He looked down and saw... a glimmer.

A stone, wedged into the broken rock, pulsed with bluish light.

It was strange. No other stone in the quarry looked like this. It seemed almost alive, its shimmering surface emitting an energy he could almost feel beneath his fingers.

A wave of shivers ran down his spine.

Then, suddenly-

A screen appeared before his eyes.

[ABSORPTION SYSTEM ACTIVATED]

Rare object detected: Moonstone

Would you like to absorb this stone?

Mordred's eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest.

What the...?

His throat was dry.

The dragon guard hadn't noticed it yet, but he couldn't stay frozen indefinitely.

His gaze returned to the stone.

"Yes."

[Absorption in progress...]

The moonstone immediately disintegrated into a fine silvery dust that melted into his skin.

... Nothing.

No particular sensation, no noticeable change.

Her heart raced. Had it worked?

He opened his hand, inspected his body, listening for the slightest variation in his energy.

Nothing. Not a single difference.

Damn.

He had no time to analyze. With no other choice, he resumed his work, striking the stone again and again, his eyes on the lookout.

Then, as the hours passed, more flashes of blue light appeared under his blows.

A second stone.

He absorbed it. Still nothing.

A third. Total silence.

A fourth. Not the slightest effect.

Each time, he felt this evanescent energy diffuse through him, but his body remained the same. His breath, his strength, his endurance... nothing had changed.

Am I condemning myself for nothing?

The reddish sun began to decline over the horizon, painting the sky in bloody hues. The end of the day finally arrived.

The foreman whistled, and all the slaves stopped digging before gathering in single file, their baskets filled with the precious moonstones.

Mordred began to tremble. Crap. Crap. Crap.

He glanced in panic at his own basket. It was empty.

What am I going to do now?

One by one, the slaves laid their harvest in front of them. A dozen stones for some, sometimes more. Mordred, for his part, felt his stomach knot up as the foreman moved slowly forward, inspecting each pile of stones with piercing eyes.

The silence was heavy.

The foreman stopped in front of an old slave, looked at his stones, nodded, then continued his inspection.

Mordred felt the sweat running down his back.

Then it was his turn.

The foreman stopped in front of him.

His gaze fell on the empty basket.

An ominous silence fell over the assembly.

Mordred's blood ran cold.

The foreman slowly raised his head, and Mordred saw a silent threat in his eyes.

- Where are your stones?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

Mordred opened his mouth. No answer came.

His heart was beating wildly. His face turned livid.

He was a goner.