“He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” — Friedrich Nietzsche Another week passed.
Riven had settled into the routine of the mines, though he couldn’t say he enjoyed it.
Every morning, he woke up in the cold slave quarters, ate his breakfast, and followed the other slaves to work.
The days were long, and the constant labor left his small body exhausted.
Still, he had begun to adapt.
He knew which tunnels were the most difficult to work in and which guards were the strictest.
He had also learned to pace himself, making sure he didn’t waste too much energy early in the day.
But despite everything, he hadn’t made much progress toward escaping.
His thoughts frequently returned to the storage hall.
He remembered the barrels of lantern oil, the wooden walls, and the building’s central location.
He still believed that setting a fire could create a distraction, but he needed a way to get inside again.
Sneaking in wasn’t an option.
The guards were too watchful, and he couldn’t risk being caught before he had a proper plan.
He needed another opportunity.
That morning, Riven was assigned to one of the narrower tunnels as usual.
The passage was cramped, forcing him to crouch as he worked.
His small size made him useful in places where the older slaves struggled to fit, but it also meant he was often given the more uncomfortable jobs.
He swung his hammer against the rock, breaking off small pieces of ore and placing them in his sack.
The work continued until the guards finally called for a break.
Riven sat down beside the old man he had spoken to before.
The older slave was resting against the tunnel wall, his hands resting in his lap.
Riven had noticed something about them over the past few days.
They were badly injured.
The man’s fingers were swollen and crooked, with several old scars running across his knuckles.
He struggled to close his hands properly, yet he continued working in the mines every day.
Riven had been curious about it for a while.
“Your hands look pretty bad,” he said.
The old man glanced down at them.
“They’ve been worse.” “Then why are you still working in the mines?” The old man didn’t answer immediately.
He looked toward the tunnel entrance, where two guards were standing.
“Because I don’t have much choice.” Riven frowned.
“But I thought injured slaves were sometimes assigned to other jobs.” “They are.” “Then why haven’t you been?” The old man let out a quiet sigh.
“When I first became a slave, I pissed off one of the guards.” Riven looked at him with interest.
“What happened?” “Nothing worth talking about.” The old man turned away.
Riven waited, expecting him to continue, but the older man remained silent.
“Did he injure your hands?” The old man gave him a brief look.
“He’s held a grudge against me ever since.
That’s all you need to know.” Riven considered asking more questions, but the old man’s expression made it clear that he wasn’t interested in discussing the matter.
He decided to leave it alone.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Riven looked down at his own hands.
They were covered in dirt and cuts from the mining work, but they were functional.
He thought about what the old man had said.
Injured slaves could be assigned to other jobs, but that didn’t mean the guards had to do it.
If a guard disliked someone enough, he could apparently make their life miserable.
Eventually, the break ended, and the slaves returned to work.
Riven continued mining, but his thoughts had shifted.
He had been considering how to get assigned to the storage hall for days.
Now he finally had an idea.
It wasn’t a pleasant one.
He would have to get injured.
The thought made him uneasy.
He knew that deliberately hurting himself was dangerous, especially in a world where he had no access to proper medical care.
However, he also knew that remaining in the mines wouldn’t get him any closer to escaping.
He needed to take a risk.
For the rest of the afternoon, he continued working while thinking about his decision.
He didn’t want to do anything too severe.
If his injury was too serious, he might be unable to move properly, let alone escape.
But if it was too minor, the guards would probably ignore it and force him to keep working.
He needed something that would make it impossible for him to continue mining.
As the day drew to a close, Riven found himself working near a pile of loose rocks.
Several large pieces had fallen from the tunnel walls earlier, and the slaves had been ordered to clear them away.
He stared at a rock the size of his fist.
His stomach tightened.
He knew what he was about to do, but that didn’t make it any easier.
Riven glanced toward the guards.
They were busy talking to one another, paying little attention to the slaves.
He took a deep breath.
Then he acted.
He put his hand flat on the floor and slammed the rock as hard as he could into it.
The pain was immediate.
Riven bit down hard on his lip, struggling to keep himself from screaming.
His hand throbbed, and he could barely think through the sudden pain.
For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at his injured hand.
He hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.
His eyes began to water, but he forced himself to remain quiet.
He had made his decision, and there was no point backing out now.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“What are you doing?” Riven looked up.
One of the guards had noticed him standing still.
The man approached, his expression already irritated.
“Why aren’t you working?” Riven tried to answer, but the pain made it difficult.
“My hand…” The guard looked down.
He noticed the bleeding hand with fingers bent the wrong way.
“What happened to it?” Riven hesitated.
“I dropped a rock on it.” The guard frowned and examined his hand from a distance.
“Let me see.” Riven reluctantly held it out.
The guard clicked his tongue.
“Useless little brat.
Can’t even carry rocks without hurting yourself.” He grabbed Riven by his bad arm and pulled him toward the tunnel entrance.
Riven winced as the movement sent another wave of pain through his hand.
“Come on.
You’re wasting time.” The guard marched him out of the tunnel and toward the main work area, where another guard was standing.
“Found this one injured,” he said.
“Can’t work properly.” The second guard glanced at Riven.
“How bad?” “His hand’s swollen.
Probably can’t hold a hammer.” The second guard looked annoyed.
“Then get him out of here.
We don’t need useless workers slowing everyone down.” Riven lowered his head, trying not to show how relieved he was.
It had worked.
At least, for now.
The guard led him away from the mines and toward the slave quarters.
Riven had no idea whether he would be assigned to another job or simply left to recover.
But he had managed to get himself removed from the mines.
That was a start.
By the time they reached the quarters, the pain had become almost unbearable.
Riven sat down against the wall, carefully holding his injured hand close to his chest.
The other slaves were returning from work, and a few glanced at him as they entered.
One of them asked what had happened, but Riven ignored the question.
He was too busy thinking.
If the guards reassigned him, he might finally get another chance to enter the storage hall.
He could examine the building more closely, he could find a way in.
But there was still a chance that the guards would simply send him back to the mines once his hand healed.
And after hearing the old man’s story, he knew that being injured didn’t guarantee anything.
Riven leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.
His hand throbbed painfully, reminding him of the decision he had made.
Now he could only hope it had been worth it.
Tomorrow, he would find out what the guards intended to do with him.