Voices that echo through stone do not fade; they are buried, waiting to rise again.
---
The halls of Rak'hor trembled—not with fear, but with fervor. The low growl of armored beastmen marching through the carved obsidian tunnels was like a heartbeat pulsing in stone. Torches crackled against the walls, casting shadows that danced like war spirits.
In the central chamber, the Three Chieftains of Rak'hor faced one another in silence, a jagged black table between them.
Va'rek, shoulders broad and scarred, bore the form of a rhino-like beastman. His deep eyes burned with disdain. "The Grahn clan have grown too comfortable. Hiding in their tunnels, breeding without fear. They dare to deny our summons. We are owed their loyalty—by blood."
Across from him sat Selkha, lean and serpentine in frame, fingers adorned with metal rings and teeth that flashed with cunning. "And what, Va'rek, does loyalty taste like to you? I care not for their rituals. They are fertile, and strong. Their stone-singers can shape tunnels faster than ours. Their cubs are resistant to sickness. They are assets."
Lurien leaned forward slowly, resting his clawed hands on the obsidian. He was calm, dark-eyed, wolf-blooded and ever-calculating. "Their refusal was diplomatic, not aggressive. They are self-contained, not defiant. An attack will not go unnoticed. We are not the only deep-tribe with ears to the rock."
Va'rek scoffed. "Let them hear. Let them tremble. We bring unity. Let them understand what defiance costs."
Selkha licked his lips. "I agree. The cost… is an investment. We strike now, capture the skilled, enslave the rest. The weak will fold quickly. The strong can be broken."
Lurien's jaw clenched. "You do not know how many will escape. If even one reaches the surface—"
"Enough," Va'rek cut him off. "Two votes. The decision is made."
The obsidian gavel slammed down.
---
The Attack
The tunnels of the Grahn clan were silent at first—too silent. That was the first sign. Then the earth groaned.
Rak'hor soldiers emerged from secret channels beneath the rock, using maps stolen long ago by spies and former slaves. They breached a storage cavern first, slaughtering those too slow to flee. The tunnel kin, once proud of their secrecy, were caught half-asleep, their crystal lanterns still dim.
Flame-hurlers, newly developed by Rak'hor for siege warfare, were deployed. Fire poured like liquid down narrow corridors, flushing families from their homes. Smoke screamed through the tunnels louder than any warning horn.
Selkha's forces moved like liquid through stone—binding children, crushing resistance, and marking which captives to keep alive. The traitors, former Grahn kin who had betrayed their people to survive, were dressed in Rak'hor emblems. They barked orders and herded the captured. These traitors weren't free—but they were fed, and that was enough for them.
Va'rek's warriors pushed to the heart of the settlement, where the matriarchal stones stood. He destroyed them personally, smashing the symbol of their lineages beneath his club. "You had honor once," he muttered as stone cracked. "Now you belong to us."
By the time the tunnels stopped burning, only two warriors were missing—young ones. Small. Quick. Their trails were lost in a rockslide.
"Escaped in the chaos," Selkha said, eyes narrow. "Useless cubs. They'll die up top."
"Let them die," Va'rek added. "They'll crawl back and find only chains waiting."
Lurien watched the ruined caverns with unreadable eyes. He said nothing.
---
The Aftermath
Three days later, they gathered again. The captives had been processed. Numbers recorded. Obedience tested.
"Their elders folded quickly," Selkha reported, flicking through stone tablets. "One even began training our forge-slaves before the end of the second day. Fear is the best teacher."
Va'rek grunted, pleased. "And the traitors?"
"In place. Each leads a pod of their former kin. The illusion of leadership. They're hated, but they're effective."
"And the escaped?"
Selkha waved a claw. "A footnote. Probably eaten by surface beasts by now."
Lurien's eyes were half-lidded. "Or taken in by outsiders. You both underestimate hope."
"Hope is not a resource," Va'rek snapped.
"No," Lurien murmured, "but it spreads faster than fire when the embers are left alive."
---
That night, Lurien walked the smoldering tunnels alone, his feet silent on scorched stone. He passed the labor pens where former Grahn kin now stacked minerals under watchful eyes. He passed the "elevated" traitors, seated on their bone thrones—each posture too straight, too rehearsed.
In a back cavern, he found an old shard of cracked rock—etched with ancient Grahn song-runes. It hadn't been destroyed in the fire.
> "We bind to the stone, not with chains, but with memory.
If we are buried, we grow.
If we are shattered, we echo."
Lurien touched it. Not to desecrate it. Just to remember.
---
Elsewhere, at the edges of Rak'hor control, whispers spread.
Miners in allied caverns spoke of hearing strange music in the cracks—echoes of those who vanished.
A young scout swore he saw red and white markings—a Grahn pattern—on a stone outcropping far north. He was laughed at. Beaten for spreading fear.
But one Grahn elder, her wrists still chained, listened to the fire in the walls.
"The stone has memory," she whispered to her captors. "And you've only cracked the surface."
---
Back in the high chamber, Va'rek called for expansion.
"We march on the Rolk caverns next," he declared. "We absorb, we ascend."
Selkha nodded. "Their spice pools alone could triple our trade."
Lurien didn't respond.
His mind had drifted to the surface. To the two who escaped. To the tribe aboveground—once scorned, now possibly sheltering the lost.
He suspected war would come from above, not below.
But for now, he let silence win. There were no votes left to cast.