The journey to Blackridge took three hours.
The town was smaller than New Haven—just a few blocks of timber shops, a small mosque, and rows of dilapidated workers' houses. The air here smelled of dust and metal. In the distance, barren rocky mountains loomed—and on their slopes, the rusted entrance of the Blackridge Old Mine.
Ben pulled the jeep up at a roadside stall.
"We have to wait for nightfall, sir. Too many eyes during the day."
Ezra nodded. They entered the stall—a wooden building with a zinc roof that leaked in several places. Inside, a few local men were drinking coffee and playing checkers, talking about the weather and the price of goods.
An old woman—likely the owner of the stall—approached their table.
"What are you eating, son?"
"Two plates of fried rice, ma'am," Ben said.
The woman glanced at Ezra. Her eyes were sharp—too sharp for a simple food vendor.
"You're not from around here," she said.
"I'm from Nova Aethelburg," Ezra replied. "A journalist. I'm here to write about Blackridge."
"Journalist." The woman repeated the word as if it were the name of a disease. "Be careful, son. Blackridge is no place for journalists."
She walked back to the kitchen, leaving Ezra and Ben behind.
"Who is she?" Ezra whispered.
"Mak Cik Kiah. She's... kind. But she knows a lot. And she doesn't like outsiders."
Ezra made a mental note.
At 9:00 PM, the Blackridge sky was pitch black. There were no streetlights. No lights from the houses. Only the cold stars and a thin crescent moon.
Ben led Ezra along a dirt path behind the stall. They walked in silence, accompanied only by the sound of the wind whistling through the rocks.
After about half an hour, they reached the foot of Death Hill.
"Over here, sir." Ben pointed toward a small hole hidden behind a large boulder. "The alternative entrance."
Ezra peered into the hole. It was dark. No bottom was visible.
"You go in first. I'll follow."
Ben took a flashlight out of his backpack. "This path is narrow, sir. Maybe 500 meters. Then... we arrive."
"What's waiting for us there?"
"I don't know, sir. The last time I was here, I didn't get to see it all. But..." Ben drew a breath. "I heard voices. Many of them. Men. Women. Children. All of them crying."
Ezra gripped the folding knife in his pocket. It wasn't a formidable weapon. But it was enough to cut rope—or a throat.
"Let's go."