It’s never going to end, Hunter thought. It was hot enough that it felt like his lungs were searing with every breath. Sweat dripped from his temple onto the stone below him. One last heave; the pick rose, and he stabbed it towards the ground. The stone split under his assault. Despite how the heat made it hurt to breathe, he couldn’t stop himself from panting. Discomfort aside, he took a second to close his eyes and savour the end of his shift.

  A brief exploration of the space opened up beneath the stone he’d sundered revealed nothing of value. He grimaced as he caught sight of a corpse in one corner, only apparent by a bony leg sticking out in the beam of relentless sun. The rest of the body was nothing more than a dark mass among more masses. Another pulse of his sixth sense confirmed his initial assessment. He would find nothing of value here.

  He climbed his way out of the small hole he’d found and stretched. A subtle mirage distorted the horizon. Some instinctual corner of his mind balked at the sight, despairing over what seemed like an endless journey back to the camp. But he knew it was just an illusion. The camp had no real verticality to it. There was no reason it would stick out much over the horizon line. Without the mirage, it would be visible over the very moderate hills that spanned the distance between himself and his new home. He silently wished his friends a safe return home that evening. He hoped they endured their shifts without incident and avoided trouble with their desperate colleagues and the peacekeepers.

  They’d only been here a week. Every single day felt longer than the previous one. Back on Sanctuary, there were ancient mythologies; many of which spoke of realms for the dead. Legends described a place of endless suffering where malevolent souls atoned for the harm they caused in life. He imagined what those souls might feel once they awoke in those hellish realms. Would every minute feel like it bore the weight of the next, like it did here?

  With his trained focus, he could let himself get lost in the pickaxe’s swing. He could lose entire hours to the flow. But like clockwork, he would find his way back to the suffering. How had anyone lived in this forsaken world? Why would they want to live here?

  Hunter stumbled away from the rock wall he’d been chipping away at. He decided against bringing anything back this time, as he’d already met his self-appointed quota for the day. He tightened the strap of cloth tied across his upper arm, keeping his ring secure and out of sight. The ring’s activation didn’t require it to be on his finger. To conceal it from the Peacekeepers and fellow slaves, he hid it in his shirt. He seldom had any privacy, and this was the best solution he could think of, at lesat for the short term.

  That the Peacekeepers hadn’t noticed the ring was something that Hunter contemplated every single day. As difficult as it was, he had tried to assume their point of view. Living under their rule for the last week taught him that the Peacekeepers only missed something when self-interest distracted them. Many of them are former slaves who had proven their loyalty and commitment to their sponsors, and the organization behind them.

  He wondered about the Peacekeeper’s hierarchy. There was no doubt in his mind that it was far from benevolent to those who made up its ranks. He considered the loyalists, who seemed desperate to please their masters. And what of masters themselves?

  How driven were they to prove themselves, to stand out from the rest of the rabble? He remembered Aruon’s words about the worlds that these alien cultures had sprung from. Power was the face of justice. Personal power shaped one’s destiny. Those who sought power would seek competent subordinates to assist them. If your organization was one that didn’t shy away from collateral damage, how hard would it be to consider wiping out an entire civilization in pursuit of one’s ambitions?

  That was a hell of a precedent to set for one’s subordinates. If they were willing to kill off a civilization, what did the life of one of their staff mean to them? What would happen if they lived out their usefulness?

  Hunter clenched his teeth. The peacekeepers were abominable. It seemed to him that the only reason he had his ring was because they were all too desperate to bother with careful search of all of their captives. Any reasonable precaution he could take to hide his valuables would most likely prove enough to keep his advantage covert, at least for the short term.

  Such an advantage wouldn’t remain indefinitely. What little he’d learned about this place made it clear to him that in order to meet his goals, it would be difficult to avoid standing out. And he knew that the Peackeeper’s were weary of those who stood out. Not that there weren’t ways to mitigate the negative attention he might receive. But that was something that wounded him to think about. It was a feeling akin to breathing in the fumes from a fetid pool of pterophid shit.

  He shook his head to clear the unpleasant thoughts and double-checked the contents of his rings. The day had been productive. He’d collected enough to trade for Jaspen’s treatment. Hunter might even afford another cultivation aid for himself. He was close to a breakthrough. It wasn’t like he needed the outside help, but from what he understood, it could help speed the process along. What would take him another month of constant practice could be done in a week with the help of a potent elixir. And given how close he was, he was sure that a single elixir would be enough to push him over the edge.

  Such things were expensive to the likes of him. Life was not kind to those in the Peacekeeper’s camps. The high cost disproportionately affected non-loyalists. That being said, Hunter figured he had more than one advantage over the rest of the miserables souls trapped in this hellish plane. In fact, the ring strapped to his arm was only one of them.

  He had to favour his right leg as he walked. He grimaced and grunted as he trudged his way up a small hill. Cresting its top, he paused for a second, taking in the view. Nothing but desolation, almost as far as the eye can see. But way out there in the distance, he could see what looked like a giant’s jagged teeth sticking up out of the horizon. It was the remains of what had once been a large city. There was another slave camp out there, populated mostly by loyalists from what he’d heard.

  What were the Peacekeepers looking for out there?

  “Seedha,” Hunter whispered.

  That’s what he’d heard the other slaves call this world. It’s what the people who had lived here had called it before their genocide, apparently. Now the word was spoken by alien tongues, breathed from lips born to distant worlds. Seedha might once have meant something beautiful. Now, all it meant was death.

  Death and damnable, unrelenting heat.

  They’d destroyed this world. What remained worth taking?

  And more importantly, how the hell had the Peacekeepers caused so much destruction? Had they bombarded the surface from high above? Whispers of a superweapon made him wonder how the Skyhold fleet had held them off for as long as they did.

  Hunter panted and suffered the long march back to the camp. He nodded to some familiar faces along the way. Once in a while, he’d get one in return. Most ignored him. He didn’t blame them. Friendships were rare out here, as most of the slaves could only summon the energy to look after themselves. Friendships would be a privilege for the loyalists. Even then, in Hunter’s opinion, to be a loyalist meant you weren’t exactly the trustworthy sort.

  Unless someone was looking to become a loyalist themselves, there wasn’t much reason to invest in a relationship with them. But one had to think long and hard before making that choice. Although he’d only been in the camp for a week, he’d seen enough to dissuade him from that path.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  He couldn’t consider becoming a loyalist. It might smooth his journey through this place, allow him more freedom to hide his advantages in plain sight. But what would it cost him?

  Hunter shook his head.

  No, sucking up to the Peacekeepers wasn’t an option for him. Not after their fleet had tried to attack his new home and kill the people he cared about. And especially not after what he’d seen the Peacekeepers do to Jaspen’s grandfather, or what they had done to Sly.

  He huffed away the frustration before it turned into a hateful spiral. He needed to stay focused.

  From his experience, befriending the other slaves didn’t seem to solve any foreseeable problems. Not that such friendships didn’t exist. There were some partnerships that Hunter could see paying off big time in the long run.

  The trail of grey, forlorn faces multiplied as he approached the camp. But there were a rare few among them who were different. They contrasted the river of despairing faces with an intensity of focus and desire. They were signs of life amidst the ash of humanity streaming along their dreary paths.

  Those few individuals held a spirit which Hunter recognized in himself. Their lives were uncertain, and the odds of ever finding freedom were far too narrow for such stressed and exhausted minds to contemplate for long. Yet, Hunter himself had followed the example of these spirited few. Following a rough landing on Seedha, he immediately started searching for ways to better their circumstances. He scrambled to find any means to rise above the soul-crushed mass of humanity surrounding him without selling his soul. It didn’t take him long to find those ways, either. In fact, he’d realized that he’d brought them with him. His ring was just one such advantage.

  He would keep those advantages to himself for now. He’d share them with his people once he had a plan.

  Just before entering the camp, he hunched over slightly and cast his eyes down. His height marked him as a target here. Anyone who stood out might risk harassment and beatings from roving Peacekeeper patrols. He exaggerated his limp, and let his hair cover his face.

  With every ounce of his being, he tried to embody the sense of defeat that he saw around him. It didn’t take much effort. He tapped into a background despair which was always just out of sight, and which had pushed away in favour of more productive emotions. He avoided any unwanted attention, and eventually spotted the hovel that he shared with Jaspen and the others. After checking his surroundings, he increased his pace and relaxed his false weakness.

  Except for Jaspen, the small tent was empty. The young man was lying on his back. He’s breathing was raspy, and wheezing. There were fresh bruises on his face.

  From the moment they landed, Jaspen had been the target of the Peacekeepers ire. Hunter had tried to intervene the first time, and he remembered the strong glance that Jaspen had shot at him. It wasn’t until they’d talked later on that Hunter learned why Jaspen was so eager to be the focus of the Peacekeepers’ punishment.

  Let them keep their attention on me, Jaspen had said. As long as they think I’m the worst of their problems, the rest of you will be free to find a way back home.

  The guilt that had plagued Hunter during the journey to Seedha did have one positive: it prevented him from resting peacefully. To relax meant that he wouldn’t be able to gather what he needed, not only for Jaspen, but for himself as well.

  “That you, Hunter?” Jaspen said. His voice was dry and croaking. He lay on his back, a thin blanket his only covering. Not much more was needed to survive a night of Seedhan heat. After helping Jaspen sit up, Hunter pulled a canteen from his ring and handed it to him. With his good hand, Jaspen took the canteen and struggled to sip from it. Jaspen’s sigh of relief turned into a cough. He offered the canteen back, but Hunter shook his head.

  “I’ll trade for another one. You keep that. I’ll fill it again when I come back,” Hunter said.

  “You sure your secret is safe?” Jaspen asked. Hunter pursed his lips. He wished Jaspen wouldn’t talk so much. It clearly pained him to do so. He was sure that some of the others suspected the presence of his ring, but Jaspen was the only one who he would speak to about it.

  “Don’t worry about me. Rest up. I’ll go get you something to help with the pain.”

  Jaspen nodded as Hunter stood to leave. Before he exited the camp, Jaspen called out.

  “Hunter,” he said.

  Hunter paused at the entrance.

  “Thank you,” Jaspen said. Hunter nodded and left. Facing Jaspen was hard enough. Receiving the man’s gratitude with grace was borderline impossible.

  Jaspen shouldn’t have to suffer like that. He didn’t deserve it. None of them did. That Jaspen was receiving so much torment was Hunter’s fault. If he hadn’t sent that message to Aruon, the Peacekeepers never would have sought him out. Jaspen never would have had to take the blame.

  Fury burned in his solar plexus, as hot and as sharp as ever. He schooled himself and once more adopted the posture of a defeated man. He limped his way to the centre of the camp, scurrying past guards and sentries with the other slaves.

  The crack of a whip startled him, and he sought the source of the sound. He looked ahead and saw a mountain of a man sitting on a bench with his eyes closed. A crowd surrounded him, watching the spectacle.

  Mouse. It was unmistakably Mouse. The biggest man in the camp. Also, from all that Hunter had seen, the meekest.

  Yet, despite the weakness which seemed to render him listless, the man didn’t so much as flinch as the whip cracked once more and the skin along his shoulder opened. Perhaps the rot in his soul had completed itself, killing any spirit he’d once had, leaving nothing but a large, defenseless husk.

  “Do something, champion,” came the voice of a slave who wore the badge of a loyalist. The badge marked him as a cut above the rest of his kin, someone who might soon make the transition into a full-fledged Peacekeeper. Hunter had seen such slaves wearing those badges on patrol with sentries.

  The man was lithe. Judging from what he felt from the man’s aura, he had to be an Elemental Initiate. “What has become of the Terror of Whiterose?” the man asked.

  “Atuza, you’re wasting your time,” said a man to the loyalist’s side. A Peacekeeper of average height and build. He stepped forward from the crowd and held Atuza’s shoulder. Hunter couldn’t feel much from his aura. He was either still in the foundation stage, or had a way to shield his aura from Hunter’s senses. “The so-called champion’s spirit was broken years ago. All that remains is this wretched, harmless, pathetic creature.”

  Hunter’s eyebrows rose. Mouse had been a slave for years? How was he still alive?

  Atuza cracked the whip again, ignoring the Peacekeeper beside him.

  Mouse was despondent. As if his mind had fled this world and found another to rest in. The whip broke more skin. Mouse breathed calmly.

  “No wonder your wife and child were so quick to abandon you,” Atuza said with a sneer. “As we speak, your maiden warms the loins of our leader. What? Nothing?”

  Nothing. The words were like a soft wind breaking against a fortress wall.

  “Disappointing,” Atuza sighed. He scowled as he scanned the gathered crowd. The whip cracked out again. The sound caused Hunter to wince.

  “Whose next?” Atuza asked the crowd, which had already dispersed. Slaves scurried in every direction, giving a wide berth around Mouse and Atuza, who still stood watch over the giant. Hunter hurried along, lost in the crowd. The doctor’s cabin wasn’t too far. But there were times when he had to take more roundabout routes to avoid sentries. Even if the Peacekeepers wouldn’t pay him too much attention, Hunter’s figure stood out to those who had a bone to pick with him. There were others he’d like to avoid as well. Some slaves who had wanted to take claim some salvage spots he’s found.

  Was there ever a time when he would have surrendered what was rightfully his? When he was much weaker, perhaps. Instead, he fought. They were quick to back off, as they probably couldn’t afford what an injury would cost them. He was new around here, and still had his strength.

  He might have gotten away with it, but the price for his defiance meant that there would be one more threat to worry about.

  Hunter, no longer the fragile boy he once was, felt no fear at the prospect. They’d keep to themselves for now. There were a few avenues for slaves to take out their frustrations on one another. He was sure he’d encounter them again one day.

  He’d be ready for them.

  He imagined himself back in the alleyway at Barnum, surrounded by Pippen Visgold’s gang. How would his life be different if he’d had this strength back then? Calculating all the ways he could have reversed their fortunes was an exercise in futility, but he would often find himself in such contemplation. Would he have challenged them at the first slap? Would he have waited and let them gain a false sense of confidence?

  How might he have punished them? How much damage would he have done? Would he have controlled himself?

  Probably not, as he hadn’t been aware of just how deep the political currents went. It would take a mind like Aera’s in order to calculate all the potential ramifications of his actions as they unfolded. Hunter didn’t have the patience or the inclination to try.

  Hunter turned a corner and felt some relief. The doctor’s cabin was straight ahead. It would be nice to be out of sight from the Peacekeeper patrols for a small while.