Lyra’s fingers traced the cool, etched glass of the hourglass. From Gris’s chaotic collection of forgotten things, it was the one item that had called to her, a silent hum against her intuition.
Smaller than her palm, it bore intricate, geometric patterns, symbols of a forgotten age. A world before the Great Recessions, such an artifact would have been coveted by collectors, a whisper of lost artistry.
She turned the hourglass. Crimson grains, finer than any desert sand she’d seen, began to trickle. They moved with an almost hypnotic grace, a silent measure of time.
A strange vitality stirred within Lyra, not a rush of power, but a deep, resonant echo. Was this fragment of the old world connected to her own awakening, to the mineral pulse she now commanded?
Again, she flipped it. The ruby tide poured down, constant, unyielding. It was an unusual shade, vibrant against the bleached landscape of Aethel, unlike the pale ochre dust that choked the plains.
Her focus narrowed, a prickle behind her eyes. Lyra extended her will, reaching for the crimson sand, attempting to bend its granular flow. The minerals within her responded, a faint vibration in her bones.
But the sand continued its unhurried descent. Unwavering. She tried again, a silent command for the tiny grains to halt, to obey her. Nothing.
A sharp frustration bit at her. Had her instincts betrayed her? Was this just a pretty bauble, a worthless trinket exchanged for a precious Brine Gem?
A growl rumbled low in her throat. She stowed the hourglass in a pocket of her travel-worn tunic, the faint weight a reminder of Gris’s shrewdness. It had cost her dearly; she wouldn’t discard it merely because it defied her will.
She concluded the day had started with ill omens. Little did she know, the worst was yet to come.
---
Returning to the cramped, temporary lodging within the Brineheart Outpost, a hulking figure filled the doorway. He was broad-shouldered, a brute of a man. Jagged scars crisscrossed his bare torso, each mark a testament to a life lived on the brutal edge of the Salt Wastes.
Dark eyes, like polished obsidian, fixed on her. “You the new intake?”
Lyra’s spine stiffened. “I am.”
“Damn fool. Why weren’t you at the Salt-Shard Veins this morn?” His voice, a rasp of brine-crusted rock, scraped against the fragile silence.
“If you’ve come to work, you sprint to the shafts. Why must I hunt you down? Useless piece of brine-waste!”
This was Krenn. He oversaw the extraction points, a feared taskmaster of the Crystalline Depths. Known as the ‘Shard-Master,’ he was one of the most influential figures in the outpost, his authority absolute within the mining operations.
Lyra tried to explain. “No one gave me…”
“Quiet, you mewling pup. Who needs to call you? You walk into the Outpost, you know your place. You know to work.” He cut her off with a dismissive wave.
“Forget it. Just follow. No more jabbering, unless you want to taste salt and blood.”
Krenn’s roots ran deep in the Brineheart Outpost. He understood the desperate, the broken, the lost. A fresh recruit like Lyra was child’s play, another piece of grit to be ground down.
No, it wasn't just Krenn. Every soul in these Salt-Shard Veins seemed to operate under the same cruel creed. They were piranhas, circling any fresh meat that stumbled into their domain. Once a new prospect fell, they swarmed, ready to strip it to the bone.
Lyra understood. Gris, Krenn, every face she’d met—all steeped in a consuming greed. The problem: there was no visible escape from their grip. She couldn’t flaunt her new capabilities; revealing her nature here would invite a different, perhaps worse, kind of predation.
Defying Krenn now was impossible. Above all, she hadn’t been given a moment to assert herself. They pushed, relentlessly, against her.
Trapped. A cold knot tightened in her gut. She yearned to resist, to stand her ground, but knew it was futile. Not yet. Inside the outpost’s unforgiving embrace, defying Krenn was an act of suicide.
He wore an insignia on his wrist, a symbol marking him as a formidable Salt-Wielder, a master of physical combat. One did not casually challenge such a man, especially when their own abilities were still nascent.
Her mind raged. ‘Just the man in charge of the Veins came to fetch me personally.’ If she’d arrived on a transport with others, as planned, her absence might have gone unnoticed. But the sandworms had taken the others, leaving her the sole survivor. Not standing out was no longer an option.
When Lyra hesitated, Krenn’s expression hardened. His fist shot out, a blur of raw power.
A sharp crack echoed through the tiny room. Lyra cried out, stumbling backward into the rough timber wall. Krenn closed the distance, his heavy boot rising.
He stomped, ruthlessly, into her side. “Didn’t I tell you to follow, brine-waste? Ugh!”
Blows rained down, a brutal testament to his fury. Lyra curled inward, a primal instinct for self-preservation. A strange sensation, a dull thrumming beneath her skin, lessened the impact. Her awakening. Her body, infused with mineral strength, absorbed the worst.
She could fight back. The thought flared, a spark of defiance. But Lyra quelled it. Not yet. This was not the time for rebellion. It was time to endure, to gather strength, to learn. Revenge could wait. It would be all the sweeter then.
She lay like a discarded rag, enduring Krenn’s violence until his anger cooled.
His foot lifted. “Make another fuss, defy me again, and you’ll die, truly. Understand?”
“If you understand, then follow.” Krenn didn’t wait for a response. He turned, stalking out of the shack, leaving Lyra to struggle to her feet.
Her jaw ached, a coppery taste on her tongue. Bruises bloomed across her body. Her enhanced resilience had spared her severe injury, but without it, she might have been incapacitated for days.
Lyra glared at Krenn’s broad back, a cold, hard vow settling in her heart. ‘I don’t know about the others, Krenn. But you. You will die by my hands.’
Krenn paid no mind to her wounds. In the Salt-Shard Veins, workers were expendable. Worn out, broken, they were simply discarded. There was no reason to care for a piece of equipment’s well-being.
---
Krenn led her to the gaping maw of the Crystalline Depths. A Salt-Runner, gaunt and stooped, waited near the entrance.
“Give this one some gear,” Krenn barked.
The Salt-Runner moved with practiced speed, handing Lyra a heavy pickaxe, a helmet fitted with a glowing lamp, and a crude backpack stuffed with a few days’ rations.
“Cost of the pick and rations will come from your intake,” the Salt-Runner mumbled, eyes downcast. “Shardstones go in the pack when you collect them.”
“That’s all?” Lyra asked, incredulous. “No instruction on mining the Shardstones?”
“Damn it! Do I need to teach you to swing a pick? Hit the walls. That’s it!” Krenn’s voice rose again, sharp as shattered glass.
The Salt-Runner flinched, retreating a step. Krenn was known as the ‘Tyrant of the Tunnels,’ infamous for his swift, brutal punishments. Every Salt-Runner feared him.
Lyra felt a surge of bewilderment. They were sending her into the earth, deep into the unknown, with no guidance? It was a death sentence, thinly veiled.
“Hey! Toss this brine-waste into Shaft 7. No more babbling, just throw her in.”
At Krenn’s command, the Salt-Runner’s head snapped up. He grabbed Lyra’s arm, pulling her toward the darkness.
And so, Lyra entered the tunnels, unprepared.
Krenn’s roar echoed behind them. “Don’t even think of coming out without a full pack of Shardstones, you hear me? Remember what I said!”
Something hot and bitter rose in Lyra’s chest. ‘That son of a…’ The vow solidified. Krenn would pay. Soon.
Lyra understood the brutal hierarchy of the Crystalline Depths. There were no allies here. Show weakness, and be devoured. Every face was a potential threat, every shadow a hidden danger. She blamed herself for her momentary lapse of caution, for the flicker of hope she’d allowed herself upon reaching the outpost.
She strengthened her resolve, her jaw tight, and followed the Salt-Runner into the descending darkness.
Even near the entrance, the tunnel was impossibly narrow. Hewn by human hands, not machinery, the passages twisted and pinched. The Salt-Runner spoke, his voice hushed.
“Consider yourself lucky. Krenn caught you when he was in a foul mood.”
Lyra glanced at him. “Bad mood?”
“He lost all his wages at the gambling dens. Again.”
“There are gambling dens here?”
“What isn’t here? Gambling, drink, dream-dust, women. Best to avoid them all. You’ll work yourself to the bone just to make others rich.”
Salt-Runner Rion had been in the Crystalline Depths for five years. All who came with him had either been crippled, broken, or claimed by the depths. No matter how strong one’s will, this place eroded it, bit by bitter bit.
“If you want to save enough to get out of here, you have to stay sharp. Every single cycle.”
“What kind of place is Shaft 7?” Lyra asked, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine. Instinct told her this wasn't an ordinary assignment.
She considered running. But the vast, blinding salt plains stretched endlessly around the outpost. Escape was not an option. Dehydration, exposure—she would die under the unforgiving sun long before she found safety.
‘First, I must understand my abilities.’ The chaotic arrival, the confrontation, it had all happened too fast. She needed to know the full extent of her power, to master it. Only then could she formulate a plan.
They passed countless crossroads. Rion pointed out the markings. “See the arrows? Red means deeper down. Blue means toward the surface. Always follow blue when you’re done. Got it?”
Based on her descent, she estimated they had already plunged hundreds of meters beneath the surface.
Then Rion stopped. “This is Shaft 7.”
Lyra peered into the tunnel he indicated. A thick, inky darkness seemed to swallow the light from her helmet, beckoning her into its silent maw.
“You just go in there. Start working.” Rion’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I have a bad feeling about this place,” Lyra said, the words tasting like ash.
“Four people already met misfortune in here. Be cautious.”
“Misfortune?”
Rion avoided her gaze. “They died. Nobody knows how. Everyone assigned here… they just die. That’s why Krenn puts newcomers like you in here.”
Lyra stared, incredulous. Rion looked back, his eyes full of a weary understanding. He felt guilty, but he was just a Salt-Runner, helpless to defy Krenn.
“I hope you come out safe. Alive,” Rion said, his voice hollow. He turned, heading toward his own assigned shaft, leaving Lyra alone in the oppressive silence.
Lyra gazed into Shaft 7. ‘Everyone who went in there died? He sent me here on purpose, just because he lost his money?’ The heat of fury ignited within her. “Park Manho, you will definitely die by my hands, I swear.”
Her breath caught. No. Krenn. Not Park Manho. The name was wrong, a ghost from a half-forgotten dream. Krenn. Her enemy. Her tormentor.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. The only way out was through. Her hand tightened on the pickaxe, its weight a promise. Into the darkness she stepped, leaving the distant glimmer of the outpost behind.