N E K R I L I A

    Another long, grueling shift had finally ended, it doesn’t even seem like yesterday the operation broke through a relatively small new ice pocket loaded with nekralite. Workers gathered in the common hall a small, weather-beaten building that served as their dining area, bar, and escape from the biting cold outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer, sweat, and the faint, earthy aroma of the permafrost that clung to their boots. Wacian sat at one of the worn wooden tables, nursing a mug of frothy ale. Around him, the other miners were talking in low tones, their voices muffled by exhaustion. The laughter that typically followed the end of a shift was notably absent, replaced by a subdued tension. The sinkhole seemed to hang over them even here, its strange, yawning presence casting a shadow on their thoughts.
"To another day down the hole," grunted Bjorn, one of the older miners, raising his mug half-heartedly. A few workers echoed the toast, but most just sipped their drinks silently. 

    Across the table, Erik, a wiry, sharp-eyed man, had been staring at the patterns in the wood grain of the table for several minutes. His brow furrowed deeply, and he traced his finger along the lines, muttering under his breath. Wacian frowned, watching him.
"Erik," Wacian said, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. "What are you doing?"
Erik looked up sharply, as though startled out of a trance. "It's... nothing," he said, but his eyes darted nervously back to the table. "Just the grain of the wood. Doesn't it look strange to you? Like... it keeps going deeper, like it’s twisting in on itself."
A few of the other workers glanced over. Bjorn snorted, trying to laugh it off. "You're just tired. That hole's getting to you. Happens to all of us if we stare too long." 

    But Wacian could see the unease in Bjorn's eyes, the way his hand tightened around his mug.
"He's not the only one," another voice piped up. It was Anders, a quiet, steady worker who rarely spoke unless he had to. "I swear the sinkhole’s changing. The edge—when I looked at it today, it didn’t seem right. Like it wasn’t a circle anymore. More like... something else. Something bigger."

The table went silent. Even Bjorn didn’t offer a joke this time.
From another table, Magnus, a broad-shouldered miner with a booming laugh, suddenly slammed his mug down. "Enough of this nonsense!" he barked. "You lot are just letting your heads play tricks on you. The sinkhole’s just a hole. You all need to stop acting like scared children."
"Then why have you been covering the windows in your cabin?" Wacian asked quietly, his tone cutting through Magnus's bravado like a blade. The room turned to look at Magnus, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"It’s the light," Magnus muttered. "The way it reflects off the frost. That’s all."
"No," Anders said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s not just the light. It’s... something else. I’ve seen it too. In my dreams, the frost... it moves. Like it’s alive."
The tension in the room grew thick, and for a moment, no one spoke. Wacian looked around the table, noticing how pale and drawn some of the men looked, how their eyes darted nervously toward the door or the windows. These weren’t just superstitions or fatigue—this was fear, raw and real.
Bjorn broke the silence with a nervous laugh. "Well, if the frost is alive, maybe it’ll start mining for us. Save us the trouble."
A few chuckles followed, but they were weak and forced. The room’s unease remained palpable.
Wacian drained his mug and stood. "We’ve all had a long day. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s another shift, and we can’t afford to fall behind." His words were steady, but his mind was racing. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t just in the sinkhole. It was creeping into their minds, into the camp itself.
    As the men dispersed, Erik lingered at the table, staring once more at the wood grain. Wacian placed a hand on his shoulder. "Get some sleep," he said firmly. "And stop looking for patterns where there aren’t any."
But as he left the hall, Wacian couldn’t shake the feeling that Erik wasn’t wrong—that something was twisting beneath the surface, unseen but undeniable.

Day 3

    The mornings began as always—quiet and bitterly cold. The miners gathered their tools, trudging out into the frost-laden darkness. The pale glow of the sun barely pierced the overcast sky, casting long, shadowy fingers across the camp. Wacian pulled his scarf tighter against the icy wind as they descended toward the hole. Something about the air felt different today. Not the chill—it was heavier, almost oppressive, like a silent pressure pressing down on them. Wacian glanced at the others as they moved in small groups, boots crunching in the frost. Some were talking quietly, but many trudged forward with a vacant, hollow look in their eyes.

    Wacian caught sight of Erik standing alone at the rim, staring down into the abyss. His helmet was cocked slightly to the side, and his posture was tense, as if he were listening to something no one else could hear.

“Erik,” Wacian called out, his voice firm but not unkind.

Erik flinched and turned toward him. His face was pale, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “It’s deeper today,” he muttered.

Wacian frowned. “What is?”

“The sinkhole. It’s... it’s not just a hole. It’s growing. Changing. Can’t you feel it?” Erik’s voice was strained, his words coming in quick, uneven bursts.

Wacian stepped closer, placing a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “It’s the same as it was yesterday. You’re tired. We all are. Come on, let’s get to work.”

Erik hesitated, his gaze darting back to the sinkhole. “You don’t hear it, do you?” he whispered.

“Hear what?”

    Erik didn’t answer. Instead, he shook his head and shuffled toward the equipment station, muttering to himself under his breath.

The creaking elevator platform groaned under the weight of the miners as it began its slow, shuddering descent into the sinkhole. The air grew colder and denser with every meter they dropped, carrying with it an earthy, metallic tang that clung to the back of their throats. The dim sunlight from above faded quickly, replaced by the harsh glare of the floodlights mounted along the walls of the shaft. Shadows stretched and twisted in unnatural ways, playing tricks on the eyes. Gripping the railing tightly, Wacian’s gloved fingers dug into the cold steel. The rhythmic clatter of the chains pulling the platform downward was steady but unnerving, each jolt a reminder of how precarious their journey was. The walls loomed around them, a patchwork of jagged ice and exposed rock. Crystals of frost glittered like fractured glass, but they seemed oddly... wrong. Their shapes were sharp and chaotic, like shattered mirrors trying to reassemble into something alien.

“Hold on tight,” Bjorn muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “Platform’s been acting up. Last week, it stalled halfway down."

    The memory of the incident sent a ripple of unease through the group. Getting stuck in the freezing shaft with no way up or down was a nightmare none of them wanted to relive. Wacian remembered the frantic radio chatter and the hours it had taken to get the miners back to the surface. It wasn’t just the cold that made the descent dangerous—it was the sense that it was alive, waiting for an opportunity to claim them. As they descended, Wacian caught a glimpse of Anders out of the corner of his eye. The man was muttering under his breath, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the railing. The sound was faint, almost drowned out by the clatter of the elevator, but it grated on Wacian’s nerves.

“Anders,” Wacian said, his voice steady but firm. “What are you doing?”

Anders didn’t look up. “Just counting,” he murmured. “Keeps me grounded. One, two, three, five, seven…”

“Primes,” Anders said without looking at him. His voice was distant, almost mechanical. “They’re safe. The others... the others aren’t safe. Too many angles. Too many pieces.”

Wacian exchanged a wary glance with Bjorn, who stood nearby. Bjorn gave a small shrug, his expression unreadable.

“Anders,” trying again, keeping his tone calm. “What do you mean, ‘safe’?”

Anders finally looked at him, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “The primes don’t fit. They don’t belong to the pattern. The pattern can’t use them.”

    Below them, the faint glow of the worksite came into view—a sprawling, makeshift network of floodlights, scaffolding, and machinery clinging to the sides of the sinkhole. The noise of drills and hammers echoed faintly, a reminder of the relentless work that awaited them. Before Wacian could press further, the platform jolted to a stop at the bottom of the sinkhole. Anders muttered something under his breath and wandered off toward the drilling station. The others exchanged uneasy glances. Wacian’s stomach churned. The air in the shaft felt heavier than it should have, pressing against his chest like an invisible weight. As the platform jolted to a stop at the bottom, Wacian exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding... But the unease didn’t leave him. This wasn’t just a workplace—it was something else entirely. Something that watched and waited, biding its time.

   The team began unloading their tools from the supply crates near the narrow crevasse at the worksite's edge. Wacian could feel the weight of the earth above pressing down on him, the sheer height of the walls creating an oppressive sense of isolation. Working quickly, uncoiling cables and checking the integrity of the drill bits. His breath formed brief, fleeting clouds that vanished into the cold air. The chill seeped through his gloves, numbing his fingers as he tightened bolts and inspected the rig. Distant rumbling of other drills echoed faintly, their vibrations reverberating through the frozen ground. Minus the noise, there was an unnatural silence around the crevasse itself, a void that seemed to swallow sound.

    Wacian glanced over his shoulder and saw Anders standing a few meters away, motionless, staring at the jagged fissure in the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Wacian asked, trying to keep his tone casual as he straightened up.

Anders didn’t respond immediately. He was hunched slightly, his gloved hands hanging limp at his sides. His helmet lamp cast a faint glow into the crevasse, but the light seemed to be swallowed by the inky darkness.

After a long pause, Anders finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain. “It’s deeper than it looks,” he muttered. “I thought I heard... something.”

Wacian frowned and took a step closer, the frost crunching beneath his boots. The crevasse yawned before them, its edges sharp and uneven. A faint draft emanated from its depths, carrying with it a peculiar scent—earthy and damp, but tinged with something sour, almost metallic.

“Probably just the wind,” Wacian said, though he could feel the unease creeping into his own voice. He leaned over the edge, shining his helmet lamp into the void. The beam illuminated little more than fractured ice and frost-coated rock before being swallowed by shadow. “We’ve got a lot to do, Anders. Let’s not get distracted.”

Anders finally turned his head, his pale face partially obscured by the shadows of his helmet. “It didn’t sound like the wind,” he said quietly, his eyes darting back to the crevasse. “It was... different. Like a voice, maybe. Low, like it was... calling.”

Wacian stared at him for a moment, unsure how to respond. Anders wasn’t the type to spook easily—he’d always been steady, pragmatic, and unshakable. Seeing him this rattled set Wacian’s nerves on edge.

“It’s just your mind playing tricks on you,” Wacian said, forcing a chuckle that felt hollow even to him. “We’ve been down here too long. Let’s get this rig set up and get out of here by the end of the shift.”

Anders hesitated but finally nodded, though his gaze lingered on the crevasse as if he expected something to emerge from its depths. He shuffled back to the equipment pile, his movements slow and deliberate, like a man trying not to draw attention to himself.

    Wacian stood there for a moment longer, staring into the crevasse. The draft from below seemed to grow colder, biting at his face, and the faint, sour scent made his stomach turn. He shook his head and turned away, muttering under his breath.

“Just the wind,” he told himself. But as he bent back down to secure the drill, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something deep within the crevasse was listening.

Wacian tightened the last bolt on the drill and straightened up, stretching his aching back. The weight of the equipment and the bitter cold gnawed at him, but it wasn’t the physical discomfort that lingered in his mind. As he stepped away from the rig, his thoughts wandered, piecing together the fragments of unease that had been gathering over the past few days.

Something’s wrong here.

    He crouched near a crate, pretending to check his tools while letting his gaze drift around the worksite. The other miners moved like shadows, their figures bent under the weight of their gear and the monotony of the job. Most of them looked fine—tired, cold, but fine. And yet, every so often, Wacian caught flickers of behavior that didn’t sit right

    

    Magnus, staring at the rock walls with a strange intensity, as if the veins of frozen dirt held secrets only he could decipher. Anders, whispering about voices in the crevasse, his normally steady demeanor fraying at the edges. Even Erik, who had always been quick to laugh off danger, seemed quieter lately, his jokes carrying a hollow edge. And what about me? Wacian leaned back against the crate, exhaling slowly. He wasn’t immune to the creeping dread. Ever since they’d broken through that frozen pocket last week, he’d felt it—a tension in the air, a hum just below the range of hearing. It wasn’t constant, but it was there, lurking, like the faint vibration of a machine running somewhere far away.

He’d told himself it was nothing. The sinkhole was a strange place, after all. The cold played tricks on your body, and the isolation got into your head. It wasn’t unusual for workers to get a little jumpy down here. But this was different. The dreams had started three nights ago. Not nightmares, exactly—more like... fragments. He’d see shapes that didn’t make sense, angles that bent the wrong way, and patterns that spiraled endlessly in his mind even after he woke. He’d brushed it off as stress, but then there were the numbers. Wacian frowned, rubbing his temple. He hadn’t told anyone, but every time he glanced at the timer on the drill or the readings on the gauges, the numbers seemed wrong. Not broken, just... wrong. He couldn’t explain it. The digits looked fine, but when he tried to make sense of them, his stomach churned, and his mind recoiled.

Maybe it’s all in my head.

He thought about the elder’s words from the other day, the cryptic warnings about stirring things that should stay buried. He’d dismissed it at the time—just the ramblings of an old man clinging to superstition. But now, as he sat in the shadow of the crevasse, the words gnawed at him.

The ground remembers. The ice holds its secrets. And we are intruding.

Wacian glanced toward the crevasse again. Anders was avoiding it now, keeping his distance, but Wacian could still feel its pull. It wasn’t just a crack in the ground—it was something deeper, something alive.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He needed to focus. The job wasn’t going to do itself, and he couldn’t afford to let his mind wander. But as he stood and grabbed his wrench, he couldn’t help but glance at the others.

How many of them were feeling it too?

And if they were, how long could they keep pretending everything was fine?

Something’s wrong here, he thought again, gripping the wrench tightly. And I don’t think it’s going to stay hidden for much longer.

As the sun reached its zenith, though its light barely penetrated the sinkhole, Wacian took a break near one of the drill rigs. That’s when he heard it—a soft, low chuckle.

Turning, he saw Erik sitting on the frozen ground, his helmet discarded beside him. He was laughing quietly to himself, his shoulders shaking with each breath.

“Erik?” Wacian called, approaching cautiously.

Erik looked up at him, his grin unnaturally wide. “It’s all wrong,” he said, his voice tinged with an unsettling glee. “The angles, the lines... they don’t make sense. But they’re perfect. Don’t you see? It’s beautiful.”

Wacian crouched down, trying to meet Erik’s gaze. “What’s beautiful?”

Erik gestured vaguely at the walls of the sinkhole, his hand trembling. “Everything. The way it fits together. The patterns... they’re speaking to us, Wacian. You just have to listen.”

Wacian felt a cold knot tighten in his chest. He reached out to grab Erik’s arm, his voice firm. “Snap out of it, Erik. You’re not making sense.”

For a moment, Erik’s smile faltered, and he looked at Wacian with something resembling clarity. But then he shook his head and pulled away, returning to his soft, unsettling laughter.

    By mid-afternoon, the unease was palpable. More miners were beginning to act strangely—muttering to themselves, flinching at shadows, or staring blankly into the distance. Wacian found himself constantly checking on his team, trying to keep them focused on their work. But every interaction left him more unsettled. As the day came to a close, the team gathered at the base of the elevator for the ride back to the surface. The usual camaraderie was gone, replaced by a heavy silence.

    Glancing around at his coworkers Wacian noticed Magnus was nervously fidgeting with a rock in his hands, muttering under his breath. Erik was smiling faintly, his eyes unfocused. Even Bjorn seemed distant, his jaw clenched tightly.

As the elevator ascended, Wacian couldn’t shake the feeling that the sinkhole was watching them, its silent presence pressing down on them like a weight. The day was over, but the unease lingered, growing stronger with each passing moment.

Bjorn, who had always been the strongest and most reliable of the group, was now working with unnerving precision, his movements mechanical and deliberate. When Wacian asked if he was alright, Bjorn simply nodded and muttered, “Just listening.”

By the time the shift ended, Wacian noticed that the camp was splitting into two groups: those who seemed unaffected and were trying to maintain a sense of normalcy, and those who were slowly unraveling. The afflicted miners weren’t openly hostile, but their behavior was becoming more erratic, their minds slipping further into strange obsessions and fears.

As they rode the elevator back to the surface, Wacian couldn’t shake the feeling that the sinkhole was watching them. He glanced at Erik, who was staring at the frost-covered walls of the shaft with a serene, almost blissful expression.

“It’s just the beginning,” Erik murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Wacian clenched his fists, a deep sense of unease settling in his gut. Something was happening to them—something they couldn’t see or understand.