Stone dust hung permanently in the air.

  It settled on everything — on skin, in hair, between teeth — a fine gray layer that no one ever truly removed. I had stopped trying a long time ago. In Steinblock, the dust was simply part of you.

  I set down the final block and ran my fingers along its edge, checking the cut out of habit. Smooth. Clean. No cracks running beneath the surface.

  “Good,” I said quietly, raising a hand to signal the others.

  All around me, chisels struck against stone in a steady, hollow rhythm. Dull impacts echoing endlessly through the cavern. Over and over.

  That was the sound of Steinblock.

  Above us, the rock ceiling stretched heavy and unmoving, supported only by old metal beams that looked too thin to carry the weight of an entire mountain. Torches burned along the rough walls, their flames flickering uneasily, casting long shadows that twisted across the uneven ground. Smoke gathered beneath the ceiling, trapped and swirling, making each breath feel heavier than the last.

  Steinblock had shops. A few forges. Some small workshops.

  Just enough to survive.

  Everything else existed for one purpose alone:

  To carve stone from the earth… and send it away.

  I carried the finished blocks to the transfer station. Two armed guards stood there as always, perfectly still, weapons clearly displayed. One of them gave me a short, assessing look before glancing down at the stone.

  “Group Three. Leader Bram,” I said.

  He nodded once. That was all.

  The blocks were taken.

  Where they went, no one knew.

  No one asked.

  A few weeks ago, they had promoted me to group leader. More responsibility. More pay.

  I hadn’t hesitated.

  The extra money meant fewer worries at home.

  “Shift’s over!” someone called from deeper inside the quarry.

  I looked up.

  Already?

  Around me, workers leaned heavily against the walls or slumped over their tools, exhaustion written clearly across their faces.

  Not me.

  I wasn’t tired.

  Today, food from Paradise had arrived.

  The thought alone made my steps faster.

  The marketplace had been set up in a wider cavern, where the ceiling opened higher than usual. Torches hung from iron chains, their warm light falling across crowded stalls. Voices overlapped as people argued over prices or bargained desperately.

  Salt. Pepper. Garlic.

  Vegetables. Fruit.

  And meat.

  Real meat.

  The prices were ridiculous. A small pouch of salt cost nearly an entire month’s wages.

  I bought it anyway.

  Then a solid piece of red meat — heavy in my hand, cool to the touch.

  Real.

  By the time I finished paying, my pouch was nearly empty.

  It didn’t matter.

  Grandpa would be happy.

  He loved this kind of meat. Always said it tasted like old stories.

  I tightened the bag and made my way home, walking through narrow tunnels carved deep into the rock, heading back toward the only place that still felt like more than mere survival.

  The corridor had nearly emptied by the time I left the market cavern. Most people were already home. Only a few torches still burned along the walls, their flames low and unsteady.

  Five figures stepped out of the shadows ahead of me.

  Young men. Sixteen, maybe seventeen.

  Too thin. Too worn down.

  Their clothes marked them clearly — miners.

  I couldn’t even blame them. Life here eventually carved something bitter into everyone.

  “Hand over the meat,” one of them called.

  Another pulled a knife. Then a third.

  I felt no fear.

  Only pity.

  If it had been anything else, I might have given them something.

  But this—

  This belonged to my family.

  “I just need to taste it again,” one of them said hoarsely. “It’s been two years.”

  I tried to walk past them.

  One moved suddenly.

  A single clean strike to his stomach was enough. The air left his lungs, and the knife fell with a sharp clang against the stone floor.

  The other four rushed me at once.

  It didn’t take long.

  Short movements. Controlled strikes. No wasted motion. No anger.

  When they finally backed away, they collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

  Not a single scratch on me.

  I trained every day.

  Before work. During breaks. After work.

  Grandpa had made sure of that.

  As I walked away, I heard one of them whisper shakily behind me.

  “…his fists felt like stone. Or metal.”

  “I don’t think my knife could’ve cut his skin.”

  “Be grateful he didn’t kill us.”

  I didn’t answer.

  The path home led through narrow corridors carved deep into the mountain’s heart. The ceilings were low enough that even I sometimes felt the weight of the stone pressing down on my shoulders. Torch smoke lingered in the air, thick and bitter, blurring the edges of the walls.

  Everywhere I looked, there was only rock.

  The same stone.

  The same suffocating gray.

  Our home stood a little apart from the main dwellings — not truly a house, but a series of connected rooms carved into the cavern walls. Rough. Uneven. But ours.

  An orphanage.

  Grandpa had taken them all in.

  Children without parents.

  Children without a future.

  And somehow, together, we had become something like a family.

  When I stepped inside, everyone was already there.

  The curfew bell echoed faintly through the tunnels outside, its hollow ring stretching across Steinblock like a warning.

  Rest hours.

  I set the bag down near the table and turned slightly toward the door.

  “Dinner’s ready!” Lina called.

  Rat meat stew. A single glass of water.

  That was enough.

  “Looks delicious!” the younger ones called in unison, their voices bright despite everything.

  I couldn’t help smiling.

  Lina was sixteen.

  Too young for the weight she carried.

  Her mother had been abused and killed right before her eyes.

  Her father had taken his own life not long after.

  Grandpa had brought her here, just like the others.

  And still—

  She remained cheerful.

  Strong in a quiet, steady way that didn’t demand attention.

  “You’re not training tonight,” she said firmly as she stepped closer. “You need to rest.”

  “I’m fine,” I replied. “I don’t need it.”

  By the door, a small bundle of food had already been set aside for me.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She had never once forgotten.

  The younger children were already seated around Grandpa, their eyes shining expectantly.

  “Tell us about the big green city!”

  “No, tell us about the endless water!”

  Grandpa laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine.

  “An endless green world,” he began, folding his hands loosely over his knees. “A place where the ground stretches far beyond what your eyes can see. Trees taller than any tunnel we’ve ever walked through.”

  “And beyond that,” he continued gently, “there lies an enormous body of water. So vast that the other side disappears beyond the horizon. They call it the sea.”

  “A fresh breeze runs through my hair…” he added with a faint smile.

  “But you don’t have any hair!” Lina called from the cooking area.

  “I used to!” he grumbled in mock outrage.

  The children burst into laughter, the sound filling the small stone room with something lighter than air.

  “Anyway,” he continued, pretending to clear his throat with great seriousness, “the light of a great, round circle touches your skin. They call it the sun.”

  “It’s warm,” he said softly. “Gentle.”

  For a moment, his expression grew distant — almost as if he could truly feel it again.

  “That,” he finished quietly, “is the true Paradise.”

  I leaned back against the rough wall and listened to his voice carry through the room.

  And for just a fleeting moment…

  Steinblock didn’t feel like a prison.

  (Arin)

  The curfew bell had rung a while ago, its hollow echo fading slowly into the endless tunnels of Steinblock, but Bram still hadn’t returned.

  He’s probably training again, I thought, not without a hint of admiration. He always trained — before work, after work, whenever he found the smallest window of time. To me, he seemed tireless, almost unbreakable.

  I want to be strong like that too.

  Not just strong enough to survive. Strong enough that no one could tell me where I was allowed to go.

  Without thinking much further, I reached for the old sack we used to catch rats and carefully moved toward the door. If I brought back something useful, maybe no one would complain. And if I trained along the way, even better.

  I had just placed my hand on the door when I heard Grandpa’s voice behind me.

  “Stop.”

  It wasn’t loud. It never was. Yet something in it made my body freeze before I could even think.

  “It’s curfew,” he continued calmly. “No one is allowed to wander the tunnels now.”

  I turned around slowly, trying not to look too guilty.

  “But big brother goes out all the time,” I argued, unable to keep the frustration from my voice.

  Grandpa watched me for a moment before gently shaking his head.

  “He’s allowed,” he said. “Because he’s strong enough to protect himself.”

  His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver.

  “You’re not there yet.”

  I felt my fists tighten at my sides.

  “Then I’ll become strong,” I answered stubbornly. “Just wait.”

  A short debate followed — quiet, restrained, almost more about pride than rules. I pleaded. He remained patient. I insisted. He sighed.

  In the end, he relented.

  “Only for a short while,” he said. “And don’t go far.”

  I nodded quickly, perhaps too quickly.

  But once he turned away, I kept walking. Then walking farther. Then even farther still.

  The tunnels narrowed the deeper I went. The ceilings dipped lower, and the air grew thicker with smoke from the torches lining the walls. Their flames flickered unevenly, casting stretched shadows that seemed to twist with every step I took.

  My heart beat faster — not from fear, but from excitement. For once, I wasn’t just staying inside while everyone else decided what was allowed.

  I broke into a run.

  Behind me, the tunnels remained silent.

  Unnaturally silent.

  Of course he had noticed.

  Grandpa always noticed.

  He knew us too well to be fooled by quiet footsteps or obedient nods. The older I grew, the more I realized that his awareness extended far beyond what we could see.

  Without making a sound, he followed.

  One step at a time.

  Hidden within the moving shadows of the torches.

  Back at home, only Lina, Nio, and little Lea remained behind, unaware of what was about to happen.

  The door burst open without warning.

  Wood splintered violently against the stone wall, fragments scattering across the floor as a cold draft swept into the cramped room, carrying dust and ash with it. For a brief moment, even the torchlight seemed to falter, its flame bending sharply as if disturbed by something heavier than air.

  Three guards stepped inside.

  Their armor clinked softly with each controlled movement. There was no rush in their stride, no raised voices, no visible anger. Their composure made the intrusion feel even worse — as though this were not an act of cruelty, but an ordinary procedure.

  The small room seemed to shrink around them.

  “Where’s the bald old fool,” one of them asked with a crooked grin, scanning the interior, “the one who tells those ridiculous stories?”

  “He’s been detained,” another replied casually, as if reporting the relocation of equipment rather than the arrest of a man.

  Lina stepped forward.

  Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, but she forced herself to stand straight. There was still something in her that believed in reason, in the possibility that words could change the direction of what was unfolding.

  “Why?” she asked. “What has he done? He’s just an old man.”

  The slap came without warning.

  Her head snapped to the side, the sound sharp and cruel in the enclosed space. She staggered, barely catching herself against the edge of the table. Her fingers dug into the wood to steady herself.

  “Don’t interrupt,” the guard growled. “You are vermin. Nothing more.”

  After that, the situation unraveled with terrifying speed.

  A chair overturned and crashed to the floor.

  Nio screamed — high, panicked, desperate.

  Lina’s voice followed, breaking apart as she tried to shield the younger children.

  Their cries echoed down the tunnels of Steinblock.

  No doors opened.

  No footsteps approached.

  No one came.

  Steel was drawn.

  A blade cut through the air with a low hiss.

  A heavy thud followed.

  Then another.

  And finally—

  silence settled over the room like falling dust.

  (Bram)

  “Good training,” I muttered to myself as I wiped the sweat from my forehead. My muscles burned in that familiar, satisfying way that always followed a proper session. It was the kind of pain that reassured me — proof that I was improving. Proof that I was getting stronger.

  “One last sprint home.”

  My legs already felt heavy, but I forced them forward. Training was routine. Discipline. Necessary.

  Then I heard it.

  A scream.

  I slowed instinctively.

  Another one followed.

  Then the unmistakable sound of metal — brief, sharp, final. I knew that sound too well.

  And then… nothing.

  The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

  My heart began to pound harder, not from the run this time, but from something tightening inside my chest. I moved forward again, at first controlled, convincing myself it might be something else.

  With each step, the air felt thinner.

  By the time I reached the door, the world had gone completely still.

  Too still.

  I pushed it open.

  The floor was red.

  For a moment, my mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing. It tried to turn the image into something else — spilled stew, maybe, or fallen paint.

  But it wasn’t.

  Nio and Lea lay on the ground.

  Small bodies twisted unnaturally. Limbs bent at angles they were never meant to bend. They were motionless.

  I barely recognized them.

  Lina lay near the hearth.

  On the table beside her, the minced meat sat neatly prepared, carefully arranged as if she had just stepped away for a moment. She had planned to go to the market in the morning. She hadn’t had time tomorrow, so she had prepared everything tonight.

  Even now, she had been thinking of us.

  I looked at her face.

  Tear tracks had dried along her cheeks. Her eyes remained open, staring at nothing.

  And I knew.

  I knew what they had done to her.

  Just like they had done to her mother.

  The guards were still there.

  They were laughing.

  “How adorable,” one of them said, nudging the table with his boot. “You vermin can even afford meat.”

  He reached toward it.

  I was faster.

  My fist collided with his face before his fingers could touch the food. I felt cartilage collapse beneath my knuckles and heard the sickening crack of bone giving way. He fell instantly, blood spilling between his hands.

  “Don’t touch that,” I said calmly.

  Calmer than I should have been.

  “That isn’t for you.”

  Then it came.

  Not like lightning.

  Not sudden.

  It felt like pressure — a slow, crushing weight gathering deep in my stomach and rising upward, coiling around my ribs until breathing became difficult.

  I had felt it once before.

  Only once.

  What if I had stayed?

  What if, just this one time, I had listened?

  I had trained every day.

  Before work. After work. Late into the night.

  “Why do I even need to train this much?” I had once asked Grandpa.

  “So you can protect your family,” he had answered gently. “My child.”

  So I can protect them.

  And when they needed me…

  I was training.

  I was strengthening my body while they were dying here.

  My hands began to tremble.

  Blood ran over my knuckles — warm, dark, thick — dripping onto the floor and merging with the red already beneath my feet.

  I looked down.

  My hands were stained crimson.

  Strong enough to break men.

  Too late to save my family.

  Something inside me tore apart.

  The remaining guards lunged at me, shouting commands that barely reached my ears.

  They never stood a chance.

  My fists struck them one after another. I felt ribs fracture under impact, heard bones splinter, lungs collapse under the force. Their movements lost structure quickly — fear replacing discipline in their eyes.

  “How…,” one of them gasped from the floor, blood filling his mouth, “how can vermin be stronger than trained soldiers…?”

  I didn’t answer.

  I kept striking.

  Until my arms began to burn.

  Until my vision blurred at the edges.

  “Please… stop…” one choked. “I’ll die…”

  I stepped closer.

  Slowly, I crouched down in front of him.

  The arrogance was gone from his face.

  Only fear remained.

  “No,” I said quietly.

  My hands were still trembling.

  “You’re not allowed to die.”

  I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer, forcing him to look at me.

  “I won’t make it that easy for you.”

  (Arin)

  “I have to do better.”

  At some point, I stopped counting.

  Push-ups. Squats. Sit-ups. The same movements over and over until my breathing burned and my arms trembled beneath my own weight. The stone floor under my palms was cold and uneven, and with every repetition I felt its rough surface scrape against my skin.

  My body wanted to give up.

  I refused.

  I’ll catch up to you soon, I thought stubbornly.

  Big brother.

  A quiet hum behind me made my entire body stiffen.

  I froze.

  Slowly, I turned around. “Sorry, Grandpa. I was just about to go back.”

  He stepped closer, studying my posture carefully before placing a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “With form like that, you’ll never catch up to him,” he said calmly, though there was a firmness in his tone I recognized well. “Push straight up. Your back is sinking.”

  He nudged my leg lightly with his foot. “And don’t move your legs during sit-ups. If you cheat, you’re only cheating yourself.”

  Then he tapped my forehead lightly with a finger — not harshly, but enough to make his point clear.

  “I’ll show you.”

  We trained together after that.

  Not for long.

  But properly.

  I focused on my breathing. On the tightening of my stomach. On the way my muscles moved under tension. For a brief moment, everything else faded away.

  It was simple.

  Just training.

  Just Grandpa.

  Just me.

  Then a voice echoed down the corridor.

  “Curfew.”

  Heavy footsteps followed, metal lightly clinking with each step. The torchlight trembled against the cavern walls, stretching the shadows until they seemed alive.

  Several guards emerged from the darkness.

  “What do you think you’re doing out here?” one of them snapped. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut sharply through the air. “Don’t you know it’s curfew? You have work in the morning. Stone blocks don’t cut themselves.”

  Grandpa instinctively stepped in front of me.

  “He’s still a child,” he said calmly. “I’ll take him home.”

  He never finished the sentence.

  There was a short metallic hiss.

  I first saw the blade.

  Then I saw Grandpa’s eyes.

  They weren’t afraid.

  They weren’t angry.

  They were… surprised.

  The sword cut cleanly across his throat.

  For a moment, my mind refused to understand what had happened. The image felt distant, unreal — like a story being told poorly.

  Then blood touched the ground.

  And he fell.

  “...Grandpa?”

  My voice barely existed.

  No answer.

  I waited.

  One second.

  Two.

  As if he would simply get up and laugh at me for overreacting.

  He didn’t move.

  I screamed.

  The guards laughed.

  Not wildly.

  Not hysterically.

  Just casually.

  “Vermin,” one muttered, spitting to the side. “You should be grateful we even let you breathe.”

  Maybe they were right.

  Maybe even the rats we hunted were worth more than us.

  Something tightened inside me then — not violently, not suddenly — but like a pressure building from within, expanding outward until my chest felt too small to contain it.

  It felt like something was tearing.

  Not in my body.

  Something deeper.

  I want this to end.

  The thought was clearer than anything else.

  And then—

  the world responded.

  The ground beneath my feet trembled slightly at first, like a distant echo traveling through stone. Then the vibration grew stronger. I felt the rock — not with my hands or my eyes, but somewhere inside me, as if it were connected directly to my heartbeat.

  As if the earth itself were breathing.

  And I was breathing with it.

  The stone answered my rage.

  The ground rose violently, forcing unfinished blocks from their foundations. Dust erupted into the air as rock defied gravity, lifting and twisting unnaturally. Cracks spread like living veins across the cavern walls.

  I didn’t understand how I was doing it.

  I only knew that it obeyed.

  I raised my arms — but it wasn’t the gesture that moved the world.

  It was my hatred.

  Layer after layer of stone shattered above us, breaking apart as though struck by invisible fists. The guards began to scream as the ground split open beneath them, swallowing their bodies without mercy.

  I didn’t stop.

  I couldn’t stop.

  I drove upward through one layer of earth after another, the pressure exploding toward the surface, until suddenly—

  there was no more resistance.

  And then came light.

  Not torchlight.

  Not flickering orange.

  But something warm. Vast. Blinding.

  The ceiling above shattered completely, and the entire cavern collapsed inward. Massive chunks of rock fell like rain — yet none of them touched me. They curved away, diverted, as if the earth itself refused to crush the one who had awakened it.

  When everything finally grew quiet, I stood alone in a storm of settling dust.

  Steinblock was gone.

  Slowly, I lifted my head.

  A fresh wind brushed across my face — not thick or suffocating like the air in the tunnels, but light, open, endless.

  A fresh breeze runs through your hair…

  Warmth spread across my skin.

  The warmth of a great, round circle touching you gently…

  My throat tightened.

  “…So this is the sky.”

  Clouds drifted lazily across an endless ocean of blue. High above, birds circled freely, so small they were nearly invisible. Beyond the broken earth stretched a vast green world — alive, boundless, real.

  Everything Grandpa had ever described.

  “Fairy tales,” they had said.

  A single tear traced down my cheek as I looked upon that impossible world.

  And I understood.

  Nothing would ever be the same again.