Chapter 207: Torturous Death

Words : 1079 Updated : Sep 23rd, 2025

*** {Inside The Projection} The Pit. It took longer than expected, but they eventually arrived. Malik crouched behind a rocky outcrop, Safira right beside him, both staring down at the sight before them. It wasn't a mine in the traditional sense. No, this place was a wound carved into the earth—a deep, sprawling pit of jagged rock dropping down into darkness. Sure, it was nothing compared to Al-Fawra—that thing's on a whole other level—but still, this one was pretty damn big. Layers of wooden scaffolding clung to the sides, an afterthought of sorts, while crude rope bridges stretched across the gaping void and massive pulleys hung over it all, suspending metal cages that carried workers up and down. Unsurprisingly, the place hummed with activity. Many figures moved along the paths, torches casting light on their faces—tired, hollow-eyed men and women, their bodies caked in sand and sweat. Fragments of glass were carried on their backs, held in sacks of cloth. They were heading towards the outpost, which was perched on the edge of the pit. It was less of a fortress and more of a haphazard cluster of buildings slapped together with stone and scavenged wood. A watchtower, tall and narrow, jutted upward at the outpost's middle, manned by archers keeping their eyes on the horizon. Further in, tents and crude barracks were scattered, some lit from within, others dark. A thick wooden palisade formed a rough perimeter around it all, broken only by a single reinforced gate. Guards paced along the walls, weapons resting against their shoulders. Most leaned lazily against crates, talking amongst themselves. More than a few were drinking, but some still stood at their posts, alert for any intruders. These 'some' looked like the worst of the lot—barely functioning. It was pretty clear this place ran on some kind of pecking order, shoving all the heavy lifting onto the poor bastards without any kind of support or connections. ...Apparently, it was all the same, no matter where in the world you were. Malik narrowed his eyes, tracking the movement of the patrols, mentally noting their rotations, their blind spots. Safira exhaled beside him. "This place looks like shit." "That's because it is shit." He muttered back, still scanning the scene. "But it's well-defended shit." She hummed in agreement, shifting slightly. "How many do you count?" "Too many. But they're stretched thin." He pointed toward the area just beside the pit. "Most of their focus is down there. The outpost is just to bait people in, so it makes sense not to have many guards up far. They don't wanna scare our friends." She frowned. "I see... what's the play?" Malik's gaze flicked back to the exhausted workers, the glow of the glass, the distant sound of picks striking stone. "Ignore this lot. We go in and check for tracks." ... "So..." Safira ducked under a broken fence. "Who are you, really?" Malik didn't miss a step. "A Stranger." Safira rolled her eyes. "Yeah, no kidding. I mean before all this." He crouched behind a ridge, spotting a pair of riders loading crates in a carriage near a dimly lit shack. "Not important." "See, I think it is." Malik ignored her, focusing on what appeared to be a supply line he cared not about. The riders were quick, efficient. Professionals. That meant their supply chain was solid—organized. That was a problem. Safira nudged him. "C'mon, you're not gonna give me anything?" Malik moved to another vantage point. "What do you want to hear?" "Something real." He looked at her. "I don't do real with strangers." She snorted. "Bullshit." He smirked. "Think what you want." They moved on, checking out the rest of the outpost, looking for any carriage tracks on the sand. Safira didn't push again—for a while, at least. But then, when they stopped near an old well to rest, she tapped her fingers against her knee. "You move like someone professionally trained." Malik stretched his arms. "Lucky guess." "Not really. It's kinda obvious. When you walk, you only swing your left arm. Your right stays still, near your belt. You're always keeping your sword in immediate reach." Malik just shrugged. Her frown relaxed. "You ever lost a fight?" He looked at her, then grinned. "Not one that mattered." She laughed, shaking her head. "You're impossible." He smirked. "And yet, here you are." With those words, Malik paused for a moment, eyes locked on the pit. From where they were standing, they could finally catch a glimpse of the massive shard of glass sticking out of the sand. It was enormous—shining under the night sky, reflecting the Twelve Moon's light. Safira stared at it as he did, mesmerized, but a second later, they both shook themselves out of it. They had a job to finish, there was no time to be in wonderment. Adjusting his position, Malik continued to look around. They needed to find the damn trails before the wind erased them. The last one they saw was, unfortunately, a glass shipment. The riders were loading the carriage, not unloading it. He had no use of knowing where they sent their glass. Sure, they could try to raid the place where the 'rebels' had them stored, but he doubted they'd succeed. Their leader was smarter than that. They most likely had some kind of system going—switching up the drop-off points every few days so no one could get a read on their routine. Smart move, really. Meant that even if he got his hands on yesterday's info, it wasn't going to help him much today. Waste of time chasing ghosts. But that wasn't what Malik was after. No, he didn't care where the drop-offs were happening. What he wanted to know was where all that essentially shit was coming from. The village or outpost that kept this place fed and watered, the one keeping the torches on, so to speak. Because once he figured that out? It was over. See, if he could cut off the mine's supply line—no food, no water, no basic crap to keep people going—then this whole operation would fall apart. And that was the goal. He was dooming these people to a death he'd gone through himself. A torturous death that he wouldn't bestow upon anyone. Not even his enemy... The Sultan himself.

Chapter 207: Torturous Death

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