Ma’sal felt his heart leap into his throat, felt his limbs suddenly grow weak from an abrupt fear. Without the concentration needed to maintain whatever Valanese magic his mother had blessed him with, the tattoo abruptly guttered out, plunging the interior of the tent into an eerie darkness. His eyes, blinded by the sudden loss of light, were useless to him. Ma’sal could not see anything, could only feel the dull trickle of blood down his arm as he waited for his vision to adjust. His thoughts had abandoned him in the moment, leaving him rooted in place even as the hooded person turned to face him.

Run! Some primal part of his mind screamed basic instinct at him, and yet his legs felt heavier to lift than lead, felt as though they had fused into the earth. He could do nought but stare and smile as that person slowly raised a hand to lower their hood. And yet, something was off about them. That arm seemed too slender, that hand too immaculate. Unlike the other hooded men, his skin was free of black veins, was free of that corruption from whatever dark god they worshipped.

And as that hood fell away, Ma’sal once again found his thoughts stolen away from him.

He found himself staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Even in the little shrouded moonlight, her caramel skin glinted with teasing hints where they slipped out of the covers of her robe. Curls of deep black hair feel over her shoulders, tussling casually in the night wind in a way that only accentuated her exotic beauty. Her eyes were pools of brown, full of hidden meaning as he found himself utterly captivated, unable to look away.

It was not until he felt a burning sensation in his chest that he realized in his rapture, he had forgotten to breathe. The cold air was a shuddering call to reality, as he suppressed the part of his mind that was kneeling in worship of her. Woman or not, she was still one of the cultists—and he was still caught in the distribution tent in the middle of the night.

Could he outrun her? But then where could he even run to? No, this route had ended completely, utterly, in a dead end. Inwardly, Ma’sal swore at himself for being such a fool, even as the woman slowly turned away from him and reached into one of the nearby baskets.

Wordlessly, he watched as she pulled out a small loaf of bread, stuffed with fish and pickled vegetables in the style of the east. She did not say anything as she gave it to him, placed the still-warm food in his stunned hands. Then, before he could even react, she pulled up her hood and strode past him, leaving the tent and walking out into the dark night.

“Wait!” Ma’sal hurriedly spoke, only to wince at the sudden noise in the middle of the night. “W-who are you?” he whispered, watching with bated breath as she turned only to give him a whimsical smile on those full lips. Then, she slipped out of the tent, leaving the stunned Skaavosi to his own thoughts.

The loaf of bread seemed almost an illusion, too wonderful to be true, and he was half of a mind to devour it then and there, in the middle of the tent. And yet greater than his greed was his fear, and Ma’sal cautiously stuck his head out to gaze off into the night. The hooded woman was nowhere to be found, seemingly having vanished into thin air as the cultists were wont to do. Clutching his ill-gotten prize close to his chest, he braved the cold night air as he made his way back to his tent, peering blearily for any searching eyes before huddling inside those cloth and leather walls.

Once safe, he let out a held breath of relief. His fingers had pressed deep into the bread, causing the nearly-burnt surface to flake and crumble onto the sandy ground. Hesitantly, yet unable to resist the shouts of his stomach any longer, he bit into the loaf. It was dry and salty, the fish little more than jerky, the pickled roots difficult to chew to the point of pain. Yet to him, it was a blissful heaven as he took bite after bite, feeling his too-starved stomach suddenly swell with the long-deprived nourishment. The loaf, nearly the size of his forearm, was gone in a matter of seconds.

His stomach cried out for more, but he forced feeling—weaker now—down as he opened the flap of his tent, checking once more if any hooded men had caught him. Seeing none, he curled up on the floor of his tent, feeling that warmth in his belly slowly lull him to sleep.

His dreams were muddled, filled with images of that beautiful woman that he had seen. Was was it about her that was so alluring? He tossed and turned, unable to shake her from his mind until she was burned indelibly into his thoughts. Finally, as the uncaring sun once more burned in through the fabric of his tent, he heard the tolling bells summon him back to work once more.

His muscles were stiff from the poor sleep, his mind befuddled as he stumbled out of his tent into the sunlight. His body was operating on little more than instinct, on dull repetition drilled into him by slaving away for weeks in these lands. He joined the other laborers in line, preparing to gather a basket before making their way into the bloodthorn bushes. A slight nervousness filled his body as he neared the hooded overseer, the scarred man’s expression and thoughts hidden behind that cloth. Had they noticed anything from last night? Had he been caught somehow? Ma’sal fought to keep his movements regular, to shuffle forward dully with his eyes fixed to the ground.

Fortunately, it seemed as though he had indeed escaped detection and that the hooded woman had not ratted him out. Why she would do such a thing, he certainly no idea. He merely grabbed his basket, hurriedly shuffling out into the field.

His thoughts were still filled with that hooded woman as he knelt down, his fingers plucking a palm sized fruit from the vines and peeling away the thorns. Could he see her again? What if he were to hide in the tent again tonight, would she be there waiting? The day passed in dull monotony, his thoughts preoccupied and his movements dulled by thought. At the end of the day, his hands were covered with knicks, his fingers bleeding crimson rivulets.

Three tokens, he dully noted, hardly even processing as he mechanically deposited them in the hands of the hooded man, receiving a small loaf of bread for his troubles. It was not the stuffed kind he had been given last night—those were for the hooded men. His was burnt scraps, charred loaves that hurt his teeth to chew. Yet he took it nevertheless, returning to his tent as was expected for him as the sun once more hid.

Kneeling down, he picked at a worn corner of his tent where the fabric had been weathered away. Slowly, he worked the cloth, tearing the hole larger until it was large enough for him to peer through. He could see the other laborers returning to their tents, could see the hooded men taking food of their own before leaving. He watched as the walked towards their temple, passing his own tent along the way. He held his breath, his heart skyrocketing even as he tried to keep calm. You haven’t done anything, he told himself, trying to dispel the guilt that nevertheless clung to him. They have no reason to stop here. And indeed their strides took them past his tent, but still he waited until they had wholly disappeared before breathing again.

He stared intently, watching the distribution tent for any signs of movement in the night. In the end, he was so preoccupied that he did not even notice the shuffling of feet from the side facing the tent and was utterly caught off guard as the flap to his own tent was drawn open softly.

Again, he found himself rooted to the spot as she peered in, her lips drawn up into an entrancing smile before she pressed a single finger to them, gesturing for him to remain silent.

“Who are you?” Ma’sal stammered out desperately, awkwardly standing.

“I’m Tsaya.” she whispered back, and her voice was like honey as it coursed through his blood. “I’m not supposed to talk with you, but I think you have questions.” Blood and bones, what was her accent? He felt himself growing lightheaded just listening, as if he was drunk on her voice; it had a slight lilt to it, like she was from one of the islands south of the Skaavosi Isles.

She gave a furtive glance outside the tent before speaking again. “I think that there’s more to you than drying out in the sun like a prune. Join the temple, tell them that you’ve spoken with the night. They’ll know.” She pulled back, as if making to leave, and Ma’sal reached out with an arm to stop her.

“You’ll get the answers that you want, and if nothing else, there’ll be more of the stuffed bread.” A light smirk danced across her lips, once again making Ma’sal feel lightheaded and stifling his words before they could escape his throat. Before he could find his voice again, she gave a small wave before disappearing from the tent. Ma’sal was once again left alone, facing only his own thoughts as he struggled to regain his wits.

Join the temple? He peered down at his bloody fingers, at his bruised body.