Lyra wiped the sweat from her brow, laughing children darted behind her as goats brayed. Red dust coated her boots, settling over the aging water pump. Water leaked from the head, dribbling down to create a thick mud at the base. The handle gave a telltale wiggle-worse today.  

How many times had she tried to fix it this week alone?  

Too many.   

Would another request for a new pump get the same response as the last dozen? Very likely. 

Doucott at the mine office had been blunt when she’d seen him. The future of the village didn’t matter. Their quota did. As if he could drink gold. Asshole.  

“Thank the Goddess there is water to be had.” Lyra set to work fixing the old manual pump. Though the rains would come soon, along with cooler weather. But it didn’t make it easier in the moment. She swallowed hard—she needed to ensure there was water. 

Women scurried back and forth, their voices blending into a song of sound. Their words a melody that offered Lyra a sense of calm. A rarity amid the usual turmoil and strife. The mining company interfered — as if they could buy their way out of trouble.  

The wind shifted, bringing with it the harried sound of voices. Crying, screams. Torment followed by the echo of gunshots. Thick acrid smoke curled upward, spreading across the canopy.  

Lyra scrambled to her feet and raced to the small cottage she had claimed. She darted inside as the ground shook. A massive boom echoed from the north. The walls of the hut trembled violently. Cracks forming on the mud-plastered surface. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling. 

Screams surrounded Lyra. Terrified faces contorted with terror and pain. Lyra turned—faces twisted with terror, eyes wild.  

Sheer chaos.  Animals mixed with the villagers.  

A man stopped his gaze locked on something behind him. He shouted in his native tongue and darted off. 

She froze, her stomach dropping.  

“They’re close, Miss Lyra.” A boy stumbled into the room, his hands tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.