Naari started down the slope, her steps confident, while Kiva picked her way more carefully. It was wide enough to fit a cart, but all she had to do was twist her ankle on a loose stone and she’d be in real trouble. Unlike Naari, Kiva was neither athletic nor strong, life as a prisoner failing to provide much in the way of fitness. The laborers were the exception; being forced to work under such grueling conditions meant they couldn’t not be fit. It was that or die. And they almost always died anyway.

Just like Jaren would.

Kiva pushed away the thought. She’d known from the moment she’d met him that he’d be allocated a labor job, and it would lead to his death. There was nothing they could do about it, and there was no point in dwelling on it. Zalindov was cruel—it always had been, and it always would be.

But for the first time in a long time, Kiva wished she could stop the inevitable from happening.

“You’re quiet.”

Kiva’s head jerked up at Naari’s words. “I’m just watching where I step.”

Naari let it slide, even though it was clear she knew Kiva was wrestling with her thoughts. Soon the noise became so much that they weren’t able to easily converse anyway, with the sounds of hammers smashing into rock and picks chipping away at stone echoing loudly in their ears.

Given how expansive the pit was, more prisoners were allocated here than anywhere else. At any given time, there were upward of seven hundred quarriers, most perishing within a year. And it wasn’t just that there was space for them; it was also because of how vital the luminium was—not only for power and lighting, but also infrastructure and architecture. The more laborers there were, the faster the luminium could be extracted, with a further three hundred or so prisoners allocated to the depository inside the gates where they processed the mineral and prepared it for shipping to the rest of Wenderall.

It was a well-oiled machine that relied on the lives—and deaths—of prisoners.

As Kiva and Naari made their way past the first gray-clothed workers and the guards watching over them, the clanging of tools was augmented by the tangy smell of sweat and blood, combined with the chalky scent of quarry dust. A few people glanced their way, but no one stopped them. The dirt-covered prisoners had little energy to spare for curiosity, and the guards were watching their charges closely, whips in hand and ready for the slightest hint of anyone slacking off.

Kiva’s chest burned with resentment, but she made herself remember that she was here for one reason only: to collect her samples. If she figured out where the sickness was coming from, she’d be able to keep all these workers from dying even more prematurely—for what it was worth.