Chapter 26: Resisting temptation
The dragon-guard's brutal roar echoed through the gloomy dormitory, abruptly snapping Mordred out of his precarious state of appeasement. The protective layer he had managed to summon dissipated instantly, leaving the open wounds on his back once again exposed to biting pain. He struggled to his feet, feeling every muscle tense painfully beneath his damaged skin.
All around him, the other slaves also stood up in silence, their dull eyes and frail bodies testifying to the cruelty of their daily lives. Mordred quickly swept his gaze around the dormitory, his heart clenching as he noticed the absence of the girl who had welcomed him on his arrival. She had been sent to the coliseum the day before, and Mordred felt a sharp pang of anxiety at the thought of what might have happened to her.
The massive, menacing dragon-guard advanced slowly along the rows of slaves, occasionally striking the ground with his whip as a reminder of his superiority. His cold, cruel gaze suddenly came to rest on Mordred, and he moved closer until he was only a few centimeters from his face.
- You," he growled in a dull, menacing voice, "didn't bring me anything yesterday. If you fail again today to bring back even a single moonstone, I assure you you'll regret those miserable lashes.
The threat chilled Mordred's blood and he swallowed hard, feeling his pulse quicken painfully in his temples. He forced himself to hold the creature's terrifying gaze without blinking, aware that to show weakness would be fatal.
The dragon-guard finally turned away, clearly satisfied with the fear he had instilled, and motioned for the slaves to follow him. This time, instead of being led to the open-air quarry, the slaves were directed to a dark, narrow entrance carved into the rock face.
Mordred felt a growing sense of apprehension as they slowly penetrated the damp, oppressive depths of the earth. The passage was so narrow that the slaves had to advance in single file, their shoulders brushing against the cold, dripping rock. A smell of mold, mingled with that of damp earth and sweat, quickly invaded their nostrils.
The further they descended, the heavier the air became, laden with moisture and dust that made every breath painful. The silence, broken only by the metallic clank of the prisoners' chains and the muffled murmurs of a few slaves, reinforced the suffocating sense of anguish that pervaded Mordred.
Eventually, they emerged into an immense underground gallery, dimly lit by torches hanging from the walls. The place was a nightmare. Dozens of emaciated slaves were already at work, relentlessly pounding the rock faces with rusty pickaxes. Their movements were mechanical, their faces inexpressive and worn by years of suffering.