Three days passed.
Three days of silence, of pretending, of listening.
Worm kept his head low, but his senses sharpened by the hour. He could hear the lies in the guards' voices, the flicker of doubt in their orders. Fear had begun to crawl through the ranks. Brakk had been replaced by Overseer Dren — younger, crueler, but afraid.
Worm saw it in his eyes.
The mine was changing. Something unseen crept through the shadows, and the slaves began to notice. They whispered now, rumors of a ghost in the dark, a spirit of vengeance hunting the cruel.
They called it the Shadow of Chains.
Worm said nothing.
That night, a new slave arrived — a boy around Worm's age, with silver-blonde hair matted in blood and dirt. His eyes, despite the bruises, burned with quiet fury. The guards dragged him into the pit and beat him to the edge of death. He didn't scream.
Worm watched in silence.
Later, when the camp was asleep, Worm crept beside the boy's cage.
The boy cracked open one eye and whispered, "You're the one they fear, aren't you?"
Worm said nothing.
"I don't care what you are," the boy muttered. "Just don't let them break me."
Then he turned his face back to the wall.
Worm stared for a long moment.
That night, Overseer Dren returned. Drunk. Laughing. He unlocked the boy's cage, whip in hand.
He didn't see the shadow ripple behind him.
He didn't hear the whisper: "Mine."
Darkness struck.
When it cleared, only Worm and the boy remained. Dren's body was gone — swallowed by the shadows.
The boy stared at Worm, wide-eyed. "What are you?"
Worm looked down at his hands, tendrils of darkness curling around his fingers.
"…Free," he said.