Role

Chapter 2

The slave mines of Sitran were perhaps as close as a hell in the mortal
realm as it was possible to be. A black pit plunging into the depths of the
earth, twisted tunnels sprouting out from the main shaft like the veins of
some nightmarish beast. The clang of metal on stone and whips on flesh an
unholy symphony that filled the abyss without pause. Men and women worked
until they broke or were broken by the overenthusiasm of their cruel
masters. There was no day. There was no night. Just the pit, and the work,
and the knowledge that there was only one way out.

Death.

Sazven was not a strong slave. She was not a particularly quick one either,
and she came to the mines young. Old enough to work, and young enough to
not be given work that would break her developing body. Slaves were
investments, and there was no point in wasting one that could live so long,
even if physically she was not optimal for the work.

Nevertheless, it was expected she would not last long. Even as a child,
Sazven realised the same thing. The memories of the outside world sustained
her for a time, but what is a memory beside the backbreaking work of mining
endless night after endless night?

Her scales grew dull and lusterless. Her claws broke and regrew and broke
again. As her hands grew numb from the work, so did her soul.

The young saurian should have died, and perhaps nine times out of ten she
would have.

Except someone else died first, and that changed everything.