There was a sudden rattling that shook Ma’sal awake, a round of shouts that came from abovedeck. He could hear the feet running across the wood, could hear the rasping of rope against the planks. Even without any light, with his stomach empty and his limbs weak, he struggled to sit up. The heavy shackles on his wrists kept him from lifting his arms, and he was unable to do much more than roll over before running short of breath. Exhausted by such a simple effort, he collapsed against the wall just in time for the ship to suddenly jostle to a halt.

Cracking his head against the wood from the impact, he struggled to blink the stars out of his field of vision. The other slaves seemed to have woken by this time, judging from the bleary grunts and gasps for breath that filled the small hold. It was not until several minutes had passed before the ceiling above them finally cracked open, the hatch opening and too-bright light entering the room. Ma’sal blinked, the light stabbing through his skull and forcing him to tear away in a sudden motion. His muscles in his neck cramped, unused to the effort as his eyes watered. As he recovered, two hooded men strode down the stairs, saying nothing as they walked over and began to undo the restraints on the nearest man.

One by one, they opened the manacles and set the slaves free. This is your chance, some part of him screamed, telling him to run as soon as they let him go. Yet that voice was quickly snuffed out by reason as he reminded himself that there was nowhere to go in any case, that he was weak enough to snap should a too-strong gust of wind blow his way. As he saw the brief spark of life die out in the others’ dulled eyes, he saw that they shared his sentiment. Instead, he merely lay there unresponsive as the hooded men unfastened his shackles as well.

One by one, they were forced up onto their feet, either hauled up on hoisted in a manner more befitting children or cattle. As the reached the far corner, it seemed from their discussions that two of the men had died. Ma’sal was too tired to even react, was too tired even to be surprised or to mourn for the dead. Their corpses were carried abovedeck, the grunts and splash that followed suggested that they had merely been tossed into the waiting sea.

One by one, they were marched up onto the deck, out into the searing sun and the blinding light. Even with all the time he had to adjust, Ma’sal still found himself blinded by the abrupt sunlight, raising an arm to cover his eyes. He was shocked by how thin the limb was, atrophied by neglect and starvation until it was little more than bone and skin.

One by one, they made their way off the ship, walking with weak legs and stumbling across the old dock towards a sheer cliff face ahead of them. They were in some small harbor, an inlet that was surrounded on three sides by towering stone. Steps that had been carved into the rock led towards the top, playing with the shadows that were thrown across by sunlight. As he neared, they seemed to flicker and dance in front of vision, only to stop once he blinked and peered more carefully. Too long without water, he told himself, raising a finger to touch his cracked lips and wincing at the stinging pain.

One by one, the hooded men forced them up those towering steps. The distance had not made them any less imposing, and his weakness had not made the climb any less arduous. He staggered his way up, collapsing and heaving for breath after no more than twenty. He leaned against the wall desperately, not trusting his own body to hold himself up. The hooded men merely continued, as if oblivious to the slaves’ struggling. Come on, a little more. Gritting his teeth, Ma’sal tried to stand up, managing to stagger with screaming legs as he leaned to the side.

A few more steps before falling down, a few more seconds respite before continuing—that set of steps seemed infinite as his legs could no longer support him. He had to claw his way up with his hands to continue, finger digging into the stone. His nails felt like they might tear off his fingertips, his skin slick with sweat from the sun.

Another set of steps passed before there came a sudden scream from above him, two or three steps ahead. He leaned his head up just in time to watch as one of the other slaves fell off the side, too weak to continue and losing his balance. His expression was twisted with surprise, his hands still desperately clawing at the steps as he plummeted down the rock face. There was no sound as he struck the ground, the distance too far and the height nauseating as Ma’sal forced himself to look away. He was not quick enough, however, to miss the shattered body and mangled mess that now lay on the stones below.

Do not fall, he hissed to himself as kept climbing, his shoulders burning and his fingers torn bloody by the rock. His knees were ripped, what little rags he was wearing now insufficient in the face of the elements. He forced himself to continue, forced himself not to look down at how far he had to fall. Tears filled his eyes as he kept going, blinding him as he reached out for the last step only for his hand to close on empty air. Shock and surprise made him lose his balance, a final cruel stab of fate as he nearly fell on the final step.

A firm grip caught him then, one of the hooded men hauling him up to the top of the steps. The man’s skin was dark and covered in strange tattoos, his veins black and pulsing as they bulged out of his hand. That hand disappeared back under its robes before Ma’sal had the chance to look any closer.

Still gasping for breath, Ma’sal looked up in shock to find an entire town on the top of this strange plateau. What seemed to be slaves were busy working the fields, plucking prickled fruits from low growing bushes. Overseers in their robes were watching impassively, others laboring by what seemed to be some kind of temple. It seemed to be entirely carved from a single piece of obsidian, the fireglass that Ma’sal had seen before in knives from his mother’s native Valan. As he stared harder at that strange building, its appearance seemed to shift under the glaring sun, its spires and pillars shifting into smoke and reforming. Have I gone mad? He could not help but wonder as he turned to face the two hooded men that had led them here, the rest of their number still rigging the ship in the harbor below.

“Welcome to Hashatsa.” one of the men spoke, his voice rasping and chillingly cold. There was an echo there as well, as if there were two men speaking through the same throat. One seemed impossibly ancient, speaking in the manner if sand was given voice. “Welcome to Malifor, home of our lord, first land of Reclamation.”

“Here you will stay.” the second man spoke, his voice similar to his partner’s. “You are freed of your bonds, freed of whatever brands were given to you by barbarians. You are free to leave, should you wish it, and should be manage to survive the savannah. You are similarly free to kill yourselves—you need only throw yourselves off the cliff.” They spoke of it in a calm manner, utterly cruel and inhuman.

“Should you choose to stay in Hashatsa, know that you will earn your keep. Bloodthorn bushes serve for much of the food here, and our god gives us the rest.” they proclaimed. “We are all servants before Atal; even the lowliest laborer should know his love.”

“If you ever tire of the work, if you ever seek to know more of our god’s love, you need only to step into the altar, offer gift of your blood.” the first man rasped. With that, they merely bowed at the six slaves that had survived the voyage, only to make it to this strange town with these maddened cultists.

Choose, they seemed to say as they left, making their way to one of the tents in the distance. Tiredly, he glanced down over the lip of the hellish cliff. That fall seemed so simple, such an easy end to his tired pain, to his endless suffering. And yet, before he even had the time to choose, one of the nearby slaves suddenly leapt off the edge. His body shrank to a speck as he fell, three breaths passing before he finally struck the jagged stones below as an unmoving stain on the rock.

Ma’sal looked away, unable to make that choice any longer. He could Not find it in him to join that man, and so his gaze turned towards the bloodthorn bushes and those stonegazed laborers. How can I choose, he thought bitterly, when all the choices have been taken away but one?

The gods did not answer as he stumbled forward, joining the other slaves as they made their way over to the tents.