Dawn on Skorrag was not a sunrise. It was a slow thinning of darkness, the sky shifting from black to a dull, bruised red as suspended dust caught what little light reached the surface. Nothing warmed, nothing softened—the planet simply revealed itself again.
I stood at the doorway and watched Mary sleep. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, one arm curled under her head while the other rested across her chest as if holding something invisible. Even in rest, her face carried tension—brows faintly drawn, lips pressed together. Too young for this place. Too young for everything.
I leaned against the frame, committing her face to memory—the curve of her nose, the softness that hardship had not yet taken. Just in case. The thought came uninvited. I pushed it away.
I wasn't going to die.
Jomark.
The word steadied me. Clean air. Real food. Solid ground. A place where Mary could sleep without bracing against the world. I straightened, exhaled once, then stepped out and closed the door behind me.
The gathering point sat at the mouth of the main shaft, a wide clearing carved into rock and reinforced with aging metal beams that groaned under the strain of wind and time. The structure looked temporary despite having stood for years—like everything else on Skorrag.
They were already assembled.
Seven men.
One stood apart.
I slowed as I approached, eyes settling on him first.
John Doe.
Even before I saw the arm, I knew. His reputation moved through the pits like a warning. A fighter who had outlasted better men. A survivor of things no one described twice.
His right arm was mechanical—not polished or refined, but built piece by piece. Layered plates wrapped over reinforced joints, cables running along the forearm like exposed veins. Functional. Brutal. His stance was balanced, controlled, weight evenly distributed. A scar cut across his face, deep and old. His eyes were calm—too calm.
He looked up once, met my gaze, then dismissed me just as quickly.
That was enough.
"Kid?" one of the others muttered, a thick-built man with a dust-caked beard. His lips curled slightly. "You bringing him in?"
The leader didn't look at him. "He's in."
The man spat. "Then cut his share."
I stepped forward a fraction. "I take full."
A few snorts. The man smirked. "You'll be lucky to walk back."
A pause.
"Leave him."
The voice came low. Final.
John Doe hadn't moved, but his presence shifted the group. "He walks in, he earns," he said.
No one argued.
"You're scouting," the leader told me, stepping closer. His voice dropped, controlled. "You move first. You see something off, you call it."
"I will."
"Don't improvise."
I met his gaze. "I won't."
He studied me, then nodded once.
The mine swallowed us whole.
The descent began through an old shaft, reinforced with metal ribs bolted into raw stone. The structure groaned under shifting pressure, each step echoing through the narrow space. Rust flaked from beams. Dust settled in layers thick enough to dull sound. The deeper we went, the more the air changed—cooler, heavier, carrying the scent of mineral-rich stone mixed with something damp and stale.
Water dripped somewhere in the dark. Slow. Irregular.
Our lamps carved narrow tunnels of light through the black, catching sharp edges, fractured rock faces, and the occasional glint of ore veins embedded in the walls. The deeper tunnels widened slightly, branching into older excavations—collapsed sections, abandoned equipment half-buried in sediment, rail tracks twisted and broken from previous strain.
This was not a clean operation.
It was layered history.
Digging on top of digging.
Men carving deeper into something they did not understand.
"Golden core down here," a younger voice muttered behind me, trying to sound confident.
"Keep dreaming," another replied. "Last 'core' turned out to be dust rock."
"This one's different. Fresh cut. You don't open a shaft like this for nothing."
"Yeah," a third voice added, dry. "Nothing good."
A few low laughs followed.
Tight.
Controlled.
I kept moving.
The tunnel ahead changed.
The walls lost their rough, fractured texture. The chisel marks faded into something smoother, almost worn—not by tools, but by time or pressure. The floor flattened slightly, the natural unevenness giving way to something more uniform.
Wrong.
"Ceaser."
I glanced back.
The leader gestured forward.
I moved ahead alone.
The others slowed behind me, their lights dimming into distant flickers. My lamp stretched shadows longer now, distorting the walls into shifting shapes. The air here felt still. Not stagnant.
Waiting.
Each step landed softer than it should have.
I crouched slightly, brushing my fingers along the wall.
Smooth.
Not carved.
Formed.
I took another step.
The ground vanished beneath me.
Weightlessness.
Then impact.
I hit stone hard, rolling across a surface far wider than it should have been. The sound echoed—too long, too deep. My breath caught as I forced myself upright.
"I'm fine!" I called out.
The reply came faint.
Distant.
Too distant.
I raised my lamp.
The light spread.
And didn't stop.
It wasn't a tunnel.
It was a cavern.
Vast.
The ceiling stretched beyond sight, swallowed by darkness. The walls curved outward in unnatural symmetry—sections smooth as polished stone, others etched with lines too precise to be natural. The markings ran in patterns—repeating, deliberate, layered over each other like a language worn into the rock.
Not mining.
Not human.
Ancient.
I turned slowly, the beam tracing across the space.
And then I saw it.
At the far end.
A structure.
A doorway.
Massive. Carved into the cavern wall, framed by the same alien etchings. Its surface was seamless, unbroken, as if no tool had ever touched it. It stood silent, sealed… waiting.
For something.
Or someone.
Above me, voices echoed.
But they felt far away now.
Because down here—
This wasn't a mine.
And whatever had been buried here…
Was never meant to be found.