“Come in, come in, don’t let too much cold in.”


    I came in and took off my coat, tramped my feet and slid off my snow boots. I Stepped over a threshold, to keep the melt out, my toes wriggled momentarily taking in the warmth of the rich furs. They were not just on the floor, they lined the walls and they were the very ceiling itself, supported by polished bone ribs from the beasts I and my father hunted on the open sea. The hut felt small. looking down to the source of the voice, my grandmother looked small as well, the shortest woman in the village, in fact, but not in presence.


    “You will need to pay attention boy, this will take some time, sit down, would you.” my grandmother said. I knew two things then, in that snow-capped hut: one, that this was serious, and two, she never called me “boy.”


    My training had been going well with Father, but everyone was on edge lately. Lessons in history felt stale, and lessons in tactics grew repetitive. Dining was uneasy—tense, far from relaxed. I had a foot for dancing but no dance partner, and a solid left hook, but a father I could read like a book. Speaking of books, I had three in my possession, books that had become more an exercise in memory, than in learning—or enjoyment. The day was about to end, no one works past the daylight and the sun was about to set. After my chores, father had told me to go over and visit my grandmother. It was hardly a ‘visit’ she lived in a hut practically next to ours. My fathers voice was firm, tense, not to be argued with.


    “It’s past time,” she cut in more gently. “Sit down, will you?”


    I was still mulling over the change, not good, I kept needing reminders to take action. So I sat. She briefly assessed me then, before continuing: “Over the next four days, I am going to tell you a little and a lot about where I am from and why. I know you know some from your father and more than your mother has a right to share, but you will hear the whole of it now from me.


    “Ok” I nodded. She continued: “We are sending you to the military academy on the cliffs of Shea, next to the city of fools and technology.”


    “The city of wonder?”


    “You’re not going there,” she tsked. “It’s close, it is the same city, but You’re going to the academy, where both your great-grandfather and I attended. If you want to survive, don’t mention me when you get there.”


    “Why?” I asked.


    She looked at me plainly. “Because you will die. In fact, if you ask why in that manner again, you may be cut short of success”


    “Pay attention my boy and listen. We have not spoken much, you and I, because adopting my speaking and mannerisms, natural as that would be, would also be too detrimental for the desired result.”


    I knew this from my lessons in subterfuge, I groaned inwardly.“I’m listening.” I said. My boredom for lessons threatened my curiosity for life, the chance of real adventure had me, my mind already running wild. Military academy! And technocrats! No more boring lessons. Life in the village was boring, aside from hunting, with Joan and Marley, my friends and my young sister who served as scout for my father. Other villagers joined us at times. Hunting is a community sport and livelihood. The pixie tribe further north also joined in at times, we shared the spoils.


    “Listen,” she snapped, and again I focused on her. I had not realised I was looking away.


    “Sorry” I said.


    “Good.” She took a steady breath, “I should start with your great grandfather, you’re very like him you know, easily distracted. I should have known he was not a real miner—your great-grandfather, that is. He kept his head down, but his back was straight as a rod, not bowed with heavy muscle. He had arms the type women fawn over, like your father. Not arms like my brother’s, all sinew and grit.”


    “Oh?”


    “You were a miner, Grandma?”


    “Yes, yes,” she said. “The deep mines, —.”


    I interrupted. “Why do I need to learn about the Mines grandma? Don’t get me wrong, I want to hear the rest, but what does that have to do with me going to the academy?”


    “In time, in time,” she said. “If you want to succeed there you will have to understand the culture, you are cultured, but you don’t have their culture. If I tell you my story, you learn this. Both its history and mine, some of our ways and how to succeed at the academy, there are a few other things, but they can wait. If you listen well you will succeed and maybe have a little sport when the chance arises.”


    “Ok.” It sounded good, I was intrigued and I otherwise new little of my grandmothers past. She cleared her throat, sipped a little water and I got comfortable, knowing there were no more interruptions to be had.


    ———


    I am from the deepest mines and the oldest. Mines furthest from the capitol, the smallest village in the shadow of the largest mountain. That mountain was good. Mossy slopes we walked for sunlight and fun, fresh fish at market, not salt fish like the citadel’s. Pure white fish, so clean and light you almost forgot you ate anything at all. Not like the red meat of the sea beasts. Yes, sure, you have your sport now and the hunt, but it tastes like liver, like that of the wild game on the slopes of Shea. Yuk. Anyway, as I was saying, the mountain: I was a little girl, soon a woman to my own eyes then. Sixteen moons old and set to work in a tunnel not three men wide, but tall enough to swing a pick.”


    “They were good days my childhood, in that village, as much a part of the mountain as our mine.


    “The mountain spoke,” my father used to say then, if you knew how to listen that is. I remember how his calloused hands gripped his pickaxe, steady and sure as he tapped out a rhythm against the stone. It was me, my brother Jothan, and my father, and we knew our business. He tapped, and we followed his tune. Breathing and pacing out the work, the thud of clay, loose dirt, or the spark of flinty rock. The chime of granite and the satisfaction of a crack in the grey old mountain himself. All to uncover crystals for the citadel and our empire. Father’s belief in the mountain’s voice was unwavering, as though he could hear something ancient, something hidden deep within the rock. I didn’t always understand it back then—that he was referring to the harmonics of crystals, the magic stones that powered our technocrats, those marks of power worn by nobles with their pendants of black millennia stone. Stone that was not just for show, but I believed him. At least, I wanted to, his uncanny knack for finding crystals was always surprising against my doubts. Not so for Jothan, true mining grit and faith in his father.


    The mountain had a way of making you believe in that little village next to that looming snow cap. It dominated, like the nobles who carted off those crystals for pennies, knowing that we would be far richer than they, had we had the technology. We hardly complained. Warm feet, warm food, and respect for our work kept most of us happy, busy. The academy in the lower ranks was always an option for those who dreamed of rising above it all. Above honest work. We heard little rumours of those who had made it, but never first hand, the wealth or glory never trickles down.


    We lived beneath its shadow, a village tucked away, almost forgotten by the rest of the world. The stocky houses, like its people, were huddled close together, their roofs sagging beneath the weight of years. The streets, narrow and winding, were packed hard with dirt and worn smooth, like polished rock, by the endless tread of boots—miners’ boots. The boots of families like mine. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, coal, and constant cooking. It clung to everything.


    The sun hardly touched the village and only parts of the mountain and never the air, its draft always cooling as it funnelled down from the mountain’s snowy cap, freshening us before heading to the cliff and the drop down to the open sea. It felt like the earth itself was a weight pressing down on us, and it never let up when we were going into the mines. But it felt like freedom and sunshine when we came out again, soon to have a bit of pocket and food. Crystals were sorted by our village chief, he paid us and in turn he sold them on to the tax collector, in bulk. The tax collector, a lesser technocrat: in turn sorted out the academy cut, the technocratic cut, the noble cut and his own cut, for facilitating the division and distribution. Soldiers took our measure from time to time, but always from a distance and never interfering as long as business went on as usual.


    There was a rhythm in the village. A pulse that beat out the tune of steady grind, work, and survival. The little square was full of noise and the call of vendors that rose above the hum of conversation. I can still hear them now.


    “Bread! Warm flack, fresh from the oven!”


    And Old Tanja, not a day younger than I am now, always yelling above the rest: “Two pennies for saltfish! One silver for a leather pouch! A half copper for socks.Trade or buy, it don’t matter.” She was practically immortal and always selling her oldest fish first. I can never remember that she had any customers. But it wasn’t just noise. Beneath it, there was always a quietness. People carried a weight in their eyes, something that couldn’t be named. So the glint in my father’s eyes, caught in mine alike, we just never truly belonged. Not like Jothan.


    ———


    “Good day, Gunni. How are the children?” My father’s voice broke through the air like a familiar song, always the same, always warm. “Better than last week,” Gunni would laugh, shifting her tray of vegetables. There was no wood on the mountain that was not brought in, her tray was a very slender sheaf of stone, almost flexible, with thin leather strapping her wares down. It was surprisingly light. “Boys are still full of mischief, though. And how’s your Elana?” She indicated me. I shied off, trying to pull my father along so as not to get roped into talk of marriage.


    “Strong and healthy,” my father would say, his voice full of pride. He’d glance at me then, with that look that always made my stomach tighten—an expectation that I would somehow take over this conversation. But I never could.. He would pull his cap lower when answering Gunni on other days, on the rare occasions she thought she had him, and I see now however well adjusted he was to the village, he would never have married his daughter off to a commoner. The cap was a curtesy, to hide the truth of the matter from his eyes. He was just a miner to the village, but not to himself. If I chose for myself he would be glad, I know, but he never saw the day. When caught by Gunni myself, I would smile half-heartedly, fingers tracing the hem of my sleeve. Words came too easily then, flowing like water while hardly ever helpful. So I shied away or buried my victims in all my foolish thoughts. But one could not afford to be foolish with Gunni and her boys. So my eyes were as hidden as my father’s and my lips sealed tighter. birds of a feather we were.


    “Did you see the fish they brought in?” I asked, waving my hand for my father—fat’r, we would say—and I pointed toward the fishmonger’s stall, where the day’s catch lay wet on a slab of stone, packed with a bit of snow ice.


    My fat’r would squint at the fish, then shake his head, his lips curling into a wry smile. “Hmm. Not fresh enough for me, I’m afraid.” And so I would know, we were going swimming that day, a luxury no other villager had, because no one knew of this fresh water pool I had found. A secret is only a secret when shared by no more than three and hardly ever then. But crime does tighten lips where no reward would otherwise loosen them. Swimming was reserved for nobility, simply because owning anything larger than a bucket of fresh water, was a legal matter. By law, it was reserved for them alone. But not to swim, that was still fine, technically. Why, nobody knew, but it was never inconvenient. Had people found out, a small area patrol would be sent and it would be closed off, worse the village potentially relocated. It was an easy secret and a guilty pleasure.


    I remember how thinking of that pool made my heart lift. It was forbidden, but even so, the idea of the cool water on my body, of something that wasn’t the mountain but in it, a home away from home. The pool, hidden deep beneath the mountain in caverns that no one else knew about, was a secret I shared only with my fat’r and brother, and where father quickly taught us both to swim. There were no fish and no life in this water. But in that stillness, there was peace.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    The air was warmer that deep, and the hum of the water, cold, faint, dark and steady. It filled the silence in a way that made everything else fall away. Worries and stress. The mountain’s weight seemed to lift, just for a moment, and we could breathe.


    My father often spoke of how it wasn’t just a place to escape to, but a place to listen. “You’ve got to listen to the water,” he’d say, his voice low, like he was about to reveal a secret. “It’s not just the mountain that speaks.”


    The water seemed to respond to his presence, and that made me feel like there was more to the world beneath our feet than I could see. Usually, before he could say another word, I would jump in and splash the moment away. I was a lucky seabird in a freshwater pool, pretending to be a noble and making high-and-mighty faces at my brother.


    Jothan would just turn away, smile at my antics, and float on his back. My father would dabble his feet, soothing blisters. I would eventually float on my back too, head-to-head with my brother. Arms out, trying to see what he was looking at, and wondering how, with ears muffled by water, I could ever hear anything, other than my own heartbeat.


    ———


    The weeks passed the way it always did in the shadow of the mountain. Mornings were slow but purposeful. We woke with the sun, though it’s light hardly reached the village. The haze of dawn fog lingered over the rooftops, soft and pale. Quiet mornings, peace before the noise of the mines and the bustle of the square. That morning was no different. I woke to the sound of Jothan moving around, his boots scuffing against the dirt-packed floor as he hurried to dress.


    “You’re late,” I muttered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.


    “No, you’re slow, get up,” Jothan shot back, grinning as he tugged on his jumper. “If you don’t get moving, you’ll have to eat breakfast cold.”


    I groaned, rolling off the small bed. His mood was way too positive, and I didn’t have the energy. The air was brisk, carrying the sharp scent of smoke from the hearth. The heat had not spread to the walls; Fat’r was probably the one making breakfast, his fires hardly knew which way to go. Never consistent. Pulling on my tunic and tying its hem at the waist, I headed through the living room and rounded the kitchen corner, almost walking straight into Fat’r bellowing:


    “Elana! Jothan! Food’s ready—don’t make me call you again.” His voice was firm but warm, the way it always was when he was in good spirits.


    “Yes, yes. I can hear. I’m not deaf!” I said.


    The small room was filled with the smell of fried root vegetables and bread, rustic and everything almost the same colour, but it kept you going through the day and the dull lights of the mine. My father stood by the stove, a spatula in hand, flipping slices of meat in a cast-iron skillet. A small luxury over a stone pot. He had been trapping some small game before we were up apparently.


    “About time,” he said, glancing at me. I didn’t see how I was any later to my breakfast than my brother. Jothan had just sat down to inhale his food at an inhuman speed. “You could follow his example sometimes...”


    Jothan beamed at the praise, and I made it about food.


    “Only because he doesn’t chew his food,” I said, taking my seat at the worn wooden table. Jothan smirked, shoving another piece of bread into his mouth as if to prove my point.


    “Don’t start,” my father said, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice. The men in this family thought moodiness was a trait reserved women. My late mother was my shining example of countless moody, but cute, stories. I hated them and the past, to me it had nothing to do with the present. I was just tired, not snappish. He set the skillet on the table, the meat sizzling as it hit the cool air.


    “Eat up. We’ve got a long day ahead.”


    I reached for a slice of bread first, the crust warm against my fingertips. The meal was simple but hearty, and as we ate, the conversation flowed in fits and starts, mostly Jothan filling the quiet with an unusual amount of chatter. Like his food, it was all jumbled up. It was so like him and so not.


    “I saw Gunni in the square yesterday,” he said, his mouth half-full. “She says her youngest boy wants to work in the mines next year. He’s not even got the strength to carry his own tools, let alone a sack to lift, or swing a pick for more than a quarter.”


    “He’ll grow into it,” my father replied, his tone distracted. He was staring out the small window above the counter, his brow furrowed.


    “Fat’r?” I asked, setting down my cup of brew. “What is it?”


    He shook his head, as if clearing a thought from his mind. “Nothing. Just the mountain. It feels… heavy today.”


    Jothan paused as if to say something serious, then shook his head as well. “The mountain always feels heavy, Fat’r. It’s a mountain.”


    My father didn’t smile. He turned back to the table. “Okay, okay, you’re probably right,” he said to him. “Just keep your ears open today. Both of you. And don’t take any risks.” He sat to finish his own plate.


    I felt a flicker of unease but pushed it aside. My father often spoke of the mountain as though it were alive, as though it could feel and breathe and whisper. Most days, it was just talk. But something about the way he said it that morning stayed with me. It’s always easier to see the signs afterward. Everyone knows when there is a change, but hardly anyone listens in the moment, and fewer still act on it. We finished our meal in silence, taking the scraps of bread to wipe up the juices. My father rose from the table, his chair scraping back.


    “Time to go,” he said, gathering his tools and a rare little techno timer. An extravagant luxury he kept to himself. It worked on springs, not crystal, and when wound up at sun-up it would chime four times, quarter bells for breaks, we would usually head home on the third bell. Some thought us lazy for it, but we were in fact more efficient and stronger for the next day. And no rumour persisted, because we took two days off a month, not four.


    Jothan was already at the door, his pick slung over one shoulder. I grabbed my own and followed, the unease still prickling at the edges of my thoughts.


    The square was already bustling with life as we made our way toward the mines. Vendors were setting up their stalls again, their voices ringing out as they called to one another. The scent of baking bread mingled with the sharp tang of coal smoke, and the air buzzed with the hum of a day beginning. Familiar and good. Other Miners joined the little procession, boots thumping and little ones mimicking their gait and darting about. It was a good village, I thought to myself cheering up with the giggles and squeals of children.


    ———


    Fat’r decided to stay true today, no exploring the mine. We went for one of the little shafts that would have put us a little above our secret oasis, and we took a left turn and started in at the end of the tunnel, at a slight upward incline. A good spot and easier for hauling out rubble. At the second bell, it happened. My father had just handed me his coat, which I had tied around my waist, and he paused to listen. My brother moved his head in unison, and before I could find it funny, the earth vibrated as my father shouted, “Jothan!” I felt myself flung toward my brother.


    The air, suddenly thick with dust and the scent of stone, seemed to thrum, and the crack of the earth splitting open swallowed all other noises. We all fell.


    My body crashed against the jagged walls. I was plunged down into water. Some lanterns had fallen in with me, illuminating a dark shard at the bottom. The lanterns flickered wildly, their light casting frantic shadows, and a slow-sinking boulder caught me down. It was impossible to avoid. First I thought I would drown under it, but it pivoted finding its own centre, shoving me further down and away. Like the hand of god had just flicked a bird. That was when that black blade was driven into my chest, and a new pain had my attention, water forgotten—just pain as the lanterns winked out. then everything gave way again. A groan and a crack like the one before, and a deafening roar swept me out with the water. I came to a stop somewhere and lost consciousness.


    When I awoke, I was cold and wet and shaking, breath coming in short gasps, a little crystal glow from a nearby wall and that black shard stuck in my chest. Just where the ribs meet. I cut my hand touching it and panicked. Then, in a burst, I just gripped harder to get it out, but as the blood flowed, that icy splinter just melted and, to my horror, sank into the white bone of my chest. Crying with panic, I made it worse and ended up spreading it in further. My fingers and nails turned black with it, scrabbling with no success, I gave up just as suddenly. I folded the ripped flesh down, closing the wound, trying not to bleed out before curling over, blacking out again.


    Tired and waking slower the second time to complete darkness I was not bleeding I knew. My chest had a fused scar, I could feel it, like the welds on the iron carts, found in larger mining shafts. I got up on shaky legs, put my hand on the wall, and started breathing, breathing inn the air for direction in the dark. I eventually found the spot where the dry, warm air met and gave way to cold fresh and moist air and I followed, shaky legs, hand on the wall, head and heart throbbing. Hoping this section of the mine would not deceive me. I remember calling for Jothan, for Fat’r, at intervals. I remembered the whistle around my neck stupidly late. And I got out, one step at a time.


    I came out into the glow of an exit. I saw boot tracks outside, and I could have cried then and there for the relief. I exited into daylight and rounded an outcropping to the village.


    I heard shouts then and calling, but not the familiar sort—systematic. A chain of people clearing rubble from the Mine.


    I was alone. And my personal silence was suffocating. Wanting to cry out, I didn’t, and wanting to just cry, I couldn’t.


    The village looked almost untouched.


    My fingers moved instinctively to my chest, where a faint ache pulsed. The touch of my fingers against my skin felt wrong. I clenched my ripped tunic together, so as not to expose myself, awareness returning.


    Pain flared again briefly before fading, replaced by a strange warmth—a hum that resonated deep in my chest. The warmth was a stark contrast to my ribs, which felt like an icy cage around my heart. It was a feeling unlike anything I had ever experienced. Foreign. The black shard… it was somehow a part of me now. The mountain’s pulse was in sync with mine. I could feel it in the way the air shifted around me, in the way the ground hummed beneath me. I didn’t like it.


    Panic rose in my throat, but I swallowed it down. I had to focus. I had to find my father and Jothan. I got to the market square, usually full of life and noise, but it was empty save for a few. The streets were still. Gunni spotted me first, then her boys, then Tanja.


    I stumbled forward, weak and dizzy, my legs unsteady beneath me. Tanja recognised me first. I had not checked myself too carefully—I was a mess. Dirt covered blood, a gnome or a demon child clawed from mud itself is what I looked like, but not to Tanja.“Elara made it out! But the others?”Gunni recognised me then, more slowly, her gaze transformed, she ran off to check at the base of the hill, I assume to find out. I turned then, squinting still, and saw Old Marek, leaning heavily on his cane. Tanja’s grizzled husband, often forgotten because of her shouting at market. His face was drawn with sorrow, his eyes tired in a way that made my stomach twist.


    “They didn’t make it. I told him.” I felt I knew. I had hoped. But deep down, I knew it was a miracle that I made it out myself. I would hold out a little hope later, but it was fleeting, they were never found, they never returned.


    I froze then as my own words hit home… they were gone.


    The emptiness inside me threatened to consume me, but I couldn’t let it. Not now. Not when I still didn’t understand what had happened. Marek patted my shoulder very gently, and I turned and ran home. Tanja called after me.


    I sat down at the breakfast table and In the silence that followed, staring at the plates from breakfast. There was a hum—a soft, resonant pulse. Like the mountain’s voice. The one I couldn’t hear before. It did sound heavy. My father’s timer rang the fourth bell. I was still wearing his coat around my waist. “I hear it now, Fat’r,” I whispered. Then I cried.


    ———


    “Grandma, I am so sorry, I didn’t know”


    she had paused, a natural break I assumed for me to speak.


    The hut felt colder now.


    I couldn''t quite imagine losing everyone at once, not even grandma.


    “This shard, in your chest?”I asked carefully, a bit confused and curious. I suddenly had too many questions, but I knew my timing.


    She got up “uff” she said, and stretched.


    “Don’t you worry boy. This was many years ago, and the crystal well…”


    I felt a hum then in the small hut and the hair on my arms stood on end.


    Granny had cupped Her hands in front of her chest at first, and then was seemingly pulling a shaft of black crystal out of herself. The black shard, It finished at a forearms length. She held it carefully for a moment, I was mesmerised, then she looked me, dead in the eye and i was terrified. She took two brisk steps toward me and stabbed me in the chest.


    Too stupefied to react, every instinct conflicted. Frail Grandma was fast and the force sent me on my back, the pain and that weird hum ever increasing and just before I lost consciousness I saw her looming over me, she gave me a steady look up and down, nodded once and then quite casually checked her nails. “Huh, so that’s what they look like” then everything went black.