On the third day after the new rules took effect.
A group of men who did no work appeared at the quarry.
The burly man leading them was called Grom, formerly the miners' foreman in Shatterstone County.
They neither spoke nor worked, merely sweeping cold gazes over every worker who entered the quarry.
Those gazes were like an inventory of their possessions.
They called themselves the "Iron Fist Gang."
An unwritten rule reached every worker's ears through various channels.
Anyone who wanted to work in the quarry was welcome.
At the end of each day, they had to go to Grom's camp of their own accord and hand over a pound of rye bread.
It was less an order than a "suggestion."
No one dared discuss it openly.
Lars, a farmer, had seen with his own eyes what happened to those who ignored the "suggestion."
Yesterday, a headstrong young man from inland who slept beside him had merely grumbled to a fellow townsman over a meal, asking why he should have to give away his own rations for nothing.
In the middle of that night, a series of muffled sounds woke Lars.
Through a gap in the shack, he saw several dark figures drag the young man outside, gag him, and haul him into a distant, dark corner.
There were no screams, only a few dull blows and stifled whimpers.
This morning, people found the young man beside the road.
One of his legs bent at an unnatural angle, and his face was so bruised and swollen that it was unrecognizable. The merit points card he used to exchange for food was gone.
The constables came to investigate and asked around, but no one dared admit to having seen anything.
In the end, they could only carry him to the