“There is a whole world outside, waiting for you to look at it.” — J.R.R.
Tolkien Two weeks passed.
Nothing changed.
At least, not on the surface.
Riven still woke before sunrise.
He still ate the same tasteless food.
He still spent most of his days underground, swinging a pickaxe until his arms became too tired to lift it.
He still returned to the slave quarters every night and slept on the same hard floor.
But Riven had changed.
His hand had mostly healed.
Only faint swelling and bruising remained.
That was enough for the guards to put him back to work properly.
Riven didn’t complain.
The pain was familiar now.
Today, Riven was working near one of the older tunnels.
He swung his pickaxe into the rock, pulled it free, and examined the small crack he’d created.
Another swing.
Crack.
Another.
“You’re going to wear the rock out before you manage to break it.” Riven looked to his side.
The old man was working several feet away.
Riven gave him a small glance.
“I’m trying.” “That’s the problem.” The old man gave a quiet chuckle.
“You think trying harder makes everything easier.” “Doesn’t it?” “Sometimes.” The old man swung his pickaxe.
Crack.
He pulled it free.
“Sometimes it just makes your arms hurt more.” Riven almost smiled.
Almost.
They continued working for a while.
The old man eventually spoke again.
“Your hand doing better?” Riven looked down at it.
“Mostly.” “Good.” The old man nodded.
“Would’ve been a shame if it stayed useless.” Riven wasn’t sure whether that was concern or simply practicality.
Probably both.
He continued mining.
“What did you do before?” The old man looked at him.
“Before?” “Before this.” The old man was quiet for a moment.
Then he smiled faintly.
“I was an adventurer.” Riven’s expression changed smiling for the first time since he’s come here.
“You?” The old man laughed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” “I don’t know.” “Exactly.” He leaned against his pickaxe.
“I was an adventurer for quite a few years.” “What rank?” “D+.” Riven blinked.
“D+?” “That’s right.” “Is that good?” The old man gave him a look.
“Good enough.” He turned back toward the rock.
“D+ isn’t anything great, but for someone without money or a noble family behind them, it was respectable.” Riven thought about that.
“So you got stronger by adventuring?” “Partly.” The old man nodded.
“That’s one of the reasons people become adventurers.
If you’re born into a wealthy family, you can hire tutors.
Sword instructors.
Magic instructors.
You can buy good equipment, grimoires, and train somewhere safe.” He tapped the handle of his pickaxe against the ground.
“Poor people don’t have those options.” Riven listened carefully.
“Any adventurer can learn by doing.” The old man looked toward him.
“You fight monsters.
You take requests.
You travel.
You meet other adventurers.
If you’re lucky, you find someone willing to teach you something.” “Was it dangerous?” The old man laughed.
“Very.” He didn’t elaborate.
Instead, he continued.
“But it was also a good way to make money.” “How?” “Monster cores.
Materials.
Subjugation requests.
Escort work.
Hunting.
Anything people are willing to pay for.” Riven remembered the orc cores.
“Even a poor person can make money doing that?” “If they’re strong enough to survive it.” The old man’s expression became serious.
“That’s the important part.” Riven nodded.
The old man continued explaining.
“Everyone starts at E-.
Then E.
Then E+.
After that comes D-, D, D+.” He paused.
“You get its that up until S rank.” Riven repeated the first few ranks quietly.
“E- to S+.” “That’s right.” “You made it to D+.” “I did.” “And then?” The old man was silent.
Riven waited.
Eventually, the old man simply said: “Things happened.” Riven could tell from his voice that he didn’t want to talk about it.
So he didn’t ask again.
Instead, he returned to his work.
For a while, the only sound between them was the steady rhythm of pickaxes striking stone.
Then the old man spoke again.
“You know, there’s another reason adventuring is useful.” Riven looked over.
“You get to see the world.” “The world?” “Yes.” The old man smiled slightly.
“Cities.
Villages.
Forests.
Mountains.
Ruins.
Places you’ve never even heard of.” Riven’s grip tightened around his pickaxe.
He hadn’t thought about the outside world much since arriving here.
The camp had slowly become his entire world.
The mines.
The courtyard.
The slave quarters.
The walls.
That was it.
He had almost forgotten there was anything beyond them.
The old man looked toward the tunnel entrance.
“There’s a lot more out there than this place.” Riven looked down.
He wanted to see it.
More than he wanted to admit.
The old man suddenly spoke again.
“Oh, and there’s something coming up.” “What?” “Founding Day.” Riven looked at him.
“What’s that?” “A holiday.” “What happens?” “Nothing.” Riven raised an eyebrow.
The old man chuckled.
“No mining.” Riven stared at him.
“No mining?” “That’s what I said.” “Why?” The old man shrugged.
“They can’t have us working while half the men who supervise us are drunk.” Riven went silent.
The old man continued working as if he hadn’t said anything important.
“It happens every year.
The guards get the day off from their usual duties.
Some stay here.
Some leave.
Either way, nobody wants to supervise a mine full of slaves while they’re celebrating.” Riven’s pickaxe stopped halfway through a swing.
“How long until Founding Day?” The old man looked at him.
“Two weeks.” Riven slowly brought the pickaxe down.
Two weeks.
He nodded.
“That’s a long time.” “It’ll pass.” The old man returned to mining.
Riven did the same.
But his thoughts had already moved somewhere else.
Two weeks.
Riven stared at the rock in front of him.
His pickaxe moved automatically.
Swing.
Pull.
Swing.
Pull.
His mind wasn’t on the mine anymore.
‘No mining.’ That meant fewer guards.
‘Some guards leave.’ That meant fewer people inside the camp.
‘The ones who stay will be drinking.’ That meant…
Riven stopped himself.
He couldn’t let his thoughts get ahead of him.
He needed to think carefully.
He had been thinking about escape for days.
Not because he believed he could do it yet.
Because he needed to understand what would be required.
The walls were too high.
The main gate was guarded.
There were patrols.
Running wasn’t enough.
He needed a distraction.
Something big enough that the guards wouldn’t immediately notice one slave missing.
Riven had already identified one possibility.
The storage hall.
It was close enough to the outer section of the camp.
More importantly, it had a window.
Small.
But perhaps large enough for him.
Riven was smaller than most of the slaves.
That had been one of the reasons they’d forced him into the narrower sections of the mine.
Now that same weakness could become useful.
He could probably squeeze through it.
If he could get inside, he could start a fire.
Smoke would spread through the camp.
The guards would react.
They would rush toward the storage hall.
And then…
Riven’s thoughts stopped.
The gate.
There would still be a guard watching it.
Even if the others were distracted, one man could stop him.
He would need to get past that guard.
Riven’s hand tightened around the pickaxe.
His mind returned to the spear tip hidden beneath the loose brick.
He had kept it there for two weeks.
Never touched it.
Never shown anyone.
Just knowing it was there had made him feel slightly less helpless.
But now he understood something.
A piece of broken spear wasn’t enough.
He would have to kill the guard.
Riven’s stomach tightened.
He stared at his hands.
They were still small.
Still scarred.
Still weak compared to an adult man’s.
Could he actually do it?
He imagined approaching the guard.
Getting close.
Driving the spear tip into him.
The thought made his chest feel tight.
He had never killed anyone.
Not in this life.
And yet…
If he didn’t kill the guard, the guard could kill him.
Or call the others.
Riven slowly exhaled.
‘No.’ He wasn’t ready.
The fire wouldn’t be enough.
The spear tip wouldn’t be enough.
He needed something more.
Something much bigger.
His eyes drifted toward the tunnel entrance.
Then the thought returned.
Founding Day.
Riven’s expression changed.
The holiday wasn’t just a day without work.
It was an opportunity.
A day when the camp would have fewer guards.
A day when the guards who remained would be distracted.
A day when drinking would make them slower.
A day when nobody would expect anything unusual.
Riven lowered his head.
He had two weeks.
Two weeks to watch.
Two weeks to prepare.
Two weeks to figure out how to create a distraction big enough to give him a chance.
And if he failed…
He didn’t want to think about what would happen.
Riven swung his pickaxe again.
‘I need to escape.’ He struck the rock.
‘I need to be ready.’ Another strike.
‘And when Founding Day comes…’ Riven looked toward the distant entrance of the mine.
His eyes hardened.