Twist. Pluck. Peel. The sun was relentless Ma’sal worked in the fields, joining other freedmen in gathering bloodthorn fruit. He was uncertain what the pulpy, soft fruit was used for, with its runny juice that seemed to flow far too easily. They came in small, studded pods that pricked the fingers, and harvesting them left the hands bruised and ragged at the end of the day.

Twist. Pluck. Peel. He placed another harvested bloodthorn into the basket next to him before bending down, reaching further into the bramble and nettles to grab another swollen pod. He still remembered his first day in the fields, when he had nearly passed out under this oppressive sun. None of the other laborers had come over to help him that day; they had left him to die in those thorny bushes.

Twist. Pluck. Pe— The memory had distracted him for a moment, and he had grown careless. His fingers slipped as they peeled back the pod, cutting themselves. A thin bead of blood trickled down his hand, running down his arm as if it wanted to trace the Valanese tattoo carved into the flesh. Irritated, he spat on the wound, licking the line of blood off his skin before harvesting the rest of that pod.

Twist. Pluck. Peel. How long had it been? Two weeks? Longer? He had lost track of the time. Even if these cultists claimed that he was no slave, he still burned away his days in mindless toil like one. Absentmindedly, he picked up his now-full basket and walked towards the tent, dropping it off and receiving a small bronze token from the hooded overseer in exchange. He touched the coin only to wince sharply at how cold it was, the icy metal stinging his wounded finger to the point of numbness. Hurriedly, he slipped it into his small string pouch before the overseer noticed his reaction, grabbing another basket and returning to the fields.

Only three tokens today, a part of him winced as he saw the sun hanging low in the sky, knowing that he would not be able to fill another basket before night came. Damn. That would barely be enough for bread. It seemed that he would be sleeping hungry today—but then again, that gnawing emptiness in his stomach had long since become a familiar friend.

As the sun set, he heard the piercing whistle of the overseer draw the laborers back to the tent. They all walked with a certain lifeless shuffle; even if they were not slaves, they were not free. There was nowhere for them to run in these burning fields, surrounded by plains and deserts. Every morning, they lost one of their number, finding a broken, lifeless body at the bottom of the cliffs from the night before. Every week, another handful joined their number, hauled from distant shores. Like cogs in a machine, so too did they tiredly turn, waiting for the day when they would finally break and be replaced.

Ma’sal emptied the contents of his small pouch, taking out the three bronze tokens that he had managed to scavenge before placing them in that scarred, twisted outstretched hand. He tried not to stare too overtly at that gnarled skin, covered in bulging black veins that seemed to crawl over the surface like vines. In payment, he got a small piece of torn bread, already hard and cold. Yet he clutched to it desperately, not trusting his own body not to drop it as he hurriedly shuffled out of the tent.

Quickly, before it got cold as the deserts did, he made his way to personal tents that the laborers used, lined up in the shadow of that massive spire. As he walked, he managed to catch a glimpse of some more hooded figures kneeled in prayer, as they tended to do at the beginning of the night. Their low-pitched voices floating over the wind as they swayed, linking arms before convulsing and flinging themselves upon the ground. One of their number pulled out what seemed to be a dagger, its point glinting in the low torchlight. Making his way behind the first of the prostrate worshippers, he held the blade against the man’s throat and—

The man whipped his head around, as if staring straight at Ma’sal.

Ma’sal turned away instantly, his face burning red and his heart jumping into his throat. He nearly dashed into the tent, refusing to look above his feet as he clutched his small roll of bread. What were they—no, he could not think about it. These men were cultists, worshippers of some strange god of Nights and Shadows. Nothing good could come from them.

So then why do you stay? The thought came suddenly, unwelcome.He stayed because there was nowhere else to go, not if he wanted to live.

So then why do you live? Ma’sal swallowed hard, remembering those broken figures at the bottom of the cliff. He was not nearly so foolish as to lie to himself—he lived because he was afraid, because he was too cowardly to see what lay behind that curtain. He was too scared to meet his father, the man’s body covered in flames as he burned.

He forced his thoughts away from death, hiding in the safety of his tent as he tore into the bread. It was not nearly enough, gone in mere moments. The food had only been enough to wake his starving stomach from its slumber, and now it howled at him for more with a voice that would not be silenced.

Shut up, he reprimanded himself, rubbing his stomach and lying down on the hard earth. Sleep always came roughly in these lands, and he would wake in the mornings with sore limbs and back, but there was nothing to be done for it. Yet as he closed his eyes, trying to rest for the tiresome day that would come tomorrow, he found himself unable to sleep.

Ma’sal tossed and turned on the ground, rolling on his side and curling tight as his cursed stomach throbbed. It was utterly empty—blood and bones, it hurt! He grit his teeth, feeling the too-cold air rush into his lungs, and he was rewarded with a fresh stab of pain from his stomach.

Breathing hard to try and calm himself down, he knelt down in the tent for a few heartbeats before nearly yelling in frustration. Damnit. Damnit! He could not sleep, not like this. There was no punishment for thievery, was there? If there was, then it would only be death at most. He smirked. That much, I can live with.

Cautiously, he stuck his head out of the tent. Night fell quickly—too quickly in these strange lands. It was never this dark in Ossia; only these heathen southern lands were this strange. His eyes squinted, the meager torchlight from the distribution tent guttering out in the wind. There were no shadows that moved in there, the rest of the laborers having already gotten their meals long ago. Perhaps…

No, not yet. The overseer was still moving inside, from the flickering shadow that was there on the side of the tent. Patient, he told himself, nearly biting his tongue in frustration. Be a little patient…

Finally, the man left. As he walked out of the tent, the torch guttered out almost instantly, plunging the lands into darkness. There was little moon in these lands, its light always shrouded by clouds. Ma’sal had not seen the stars in weeks. Damn these cursed southern lands.

The hooded man retreated into the temple, and then still Ma’sal forced himself to wait. His stomach screamed for him to run, to dash over before anyone was any the wiser. Yet he suppressed the instinct, forced it aside as he waited still. He counted in his head, feeling his heart thump loudly in his chest. And finally, when his count had passed one-thousand, he dared to take the first step out of his tent.

He felt naked as he made that short distance to the distribution tent. It was such a short distance, and yet he nearly felt as if someone might shoot him through with a bolt at any moment. He nearly hide behind the tent when he finally reached it, pulling back the entrance only to realize that it was too dark for him to see inside.

Blood and bones! He could not fumble around like a blind man, knocking over everything inside for the hooded men to find in the morning! Gritting his teeth, his eyes flickered down to his left arm, to the Valanese tattoo that his mother had given him. To guide you when the seas are stormy. To light your path through the dark. That was what she had said.

Well, the second certainly seemed most apt for the current situation. Biting down hard, he held out his arm so that the tattoo was facing up, its curves and swirls visible in the thin traces of moonlight that made it through the clouds. With his right hand, he dug his nails into his flesh, forcing them in deeper until he drew blood.

Clawing away at the skin, he carved along the lines of the tattoo, blood welling up underneath. Light, he nearly swore, tears filling his eyes in pain. Give me light! And with the last gash, he felt his body respond to the prayer. His blood bubbled, the liquid on his arm suddenly bursting into a bright flame. It was a small fire, dim like a candle, but it was enough as he made his way into the tent.

And as he took his first step inside, he saw a sole hooded figure inside, as if waiting for him.