Mira couldn't stop the tears that flowed down her dirt-streaked face; her mother's anguished expression burnt into her mind.
Even as her pick struck the glowing crystal, her eyes kept darting back to where her mother worked further down the tunnel, her once-proud shoulders now bent under the weight of their shared suffering. Every time her mother winced from the labour, Mira felt the pain as if it were her own. Updates are released by novel⦿fire.net
The rhythmic clanging of picks against stone suddenly faltered, replaced by a wave of fearful murmurs that rippled through the mine.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the main tunnel, accompanied by the distinctive sound of dratium armour—not the standard-issue steel of the guard captain, but something far more elaborate.
"Make way for Baron Rothgard!" A voice boomed through the cavern.
Workers pressed themselves against the rough walls, heads bowed, tools clutched tight to their chests. Mira shrunk back into a shadow-filled alcove but couldn't resist peering out at the approaching party.
Baron Rothgard strode through the tunnel like he owned not just the mine but the very air they breathed. His armour was a masterwork of dratium craftsmanship, each plate etched with intricate patterns that caught and amplified the crystal's ethereal glow. The wolf's crest on his breastplate seemed to move in the shifting light, making the wolf's jaws appear to snap at the helpless bird.
Behind him walked a portly man in rich merchant's robes, his fingers adorned with rings that glinted in the crystal light. The trader's eyes darted around the cavern, taking in the workers with the same calculating gaze he used to assess the veins of dratium in the walls.
"As you can see," the baron's voice carried the cultured accent of the capital, "our operation here is most efficient. We extract more dratium in a month than most mines manage in a year."
The trader nodded appreciatively, though his brow furrowed as he spoke. "Impressive yields, my lord, but I must address the concerns of my consortium. We've heard troubling reports of bandit activity in your county. Several cargo wagons have vanished without a trace, their escorts found dead or not at all."
Mira saw her mother tense at these words, her knuckles white around her pick handle. The baron merely waved a gauntleted hand dismissively.
"Minor incidents, I assure you. Nothing that will impact our arrangement." The baron's tone grew sharper, more confident. "In fact, I've already taken steps to eliminate this nuisance. I've contracted the Kaezhlar clan to patrol our trade routes."
The effect of that name was immediate.
The trader's face lit up with relief, while several workers exchanged knowing glances.
Even Mira, young as she was, had heard whispers of the Kaezhlar clan—warrior knights renowned throughout the realm for their martial prowess and unwavering commitment to their contracts.
They were said to be descendants of ancient dragon riders, their armour forged in dragon fire, though such tales seemed like distant fantasies in the grim reality of the mine.
"The Kaezhlar?" The trader's voice held newfound respect. "Well, that changes everything. Their reputation precedes them. When do they arrive?"
"Their advance riders should reach our county within days," the baron replied, satisfaction evident in his voice. "I trust this alleviates your concerns about transport security?"
"Indeed, my Lord. Indeed." The trader pulled out a ledger, already beginning to make notes. "Now, about those quantity requirements we discussed..."
Their voices faded as they moved deeper into the mine, leaving behind a wake of whispers among the workers.
The torches in the hallways of the Kaezhlar estate cast long shadows as Jolthar followed Butler Pascal through the winding corridors. The stone walls, adorned with ancient tapestries depicting the clan's legendary battles, seemed to watch their passage with age-old eyes.
The sound of their footsteps echoed off the polished marble floors, creating a rhythmic accompaniment to their journey.
His thoughts still lingered on his earlier meeting with Lady Elowen, the clan leader's presence having left an indelible impression on his mind. Her piercing gaze had seemed to look straight through him as if measuring his worth against some invisible standard.
Jolthar thought, even though he met her for the first time, he could tell by the amount of her aura surrounding her, that she was a truly strong woman and quite frightening.
Now, as they rounded another corner, a different sight caught his attention.
In the courtyard below, visible through a grand arched window, stood Myron and Elara.
The couple walked arm in arm through the estate's carefully tended gardens, their heads bent close in intimate conversation. Moonlight silvered Elara's dark hair while catching the unusual golden gleam in Myron's eyes—a gleam Jolthar had never quite understood until now.
"Pascal," Jolthar began, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. "how did Myron gain acceptance into the clan so quickly? Even for Elara's chosen, the clan's wouldn't accept an outsider that easily."
The butler's lined face creased in a knowing smile. "Ah, that's quite the tale, young master. You see, Myron is what we call a divine born—a direct descendant of the thunder deity himself."