Just before dusk, a long, ragged column of sixty chained penal miners shuffled up the red gravel path from the deep shafts, their ankle-irons clattering in a hollow rhythm. Each man carried two heavy wicker baskets piled high with raw cinnabar ore, their bare shoulders stained crimson from toxic rock dust. Barbed leather whips cracked through the stale evening air as three overseers kept the pace brisk.
Kaelen lay in his hammock on the barracks porch, watching the procession through half-lidded eyes.
Beside the wooden porch steps, Barnaby Holt pulled an iron skillet from the hearth coals using a damp cloth. The sweet, caramelized aroma of roasted red sweet potatoes drifted across the wooden railing, cutting through the sulfur fumes that still clung to the ravine.
Mina sat on the porch bench, blowing gently on a steaming potato wrapped in a clean linen cloth.
“Eat it slowly, Mina,” Kaelen murmured, his fingers loosely gripping his bamboo pole. “The sugar on the skin is hotter than boiling oil.”
“I know, Brother,” Mina said, taking a tiny, delicate bite with a happy smile. “It is so sweet. In Ashford Town, Second Brother always locked the kitchen pantry whenever the sweet potato harvest came in.”
