Ma’sal raised a hand to wipe away the bead of sweat that had dripped into his eyes, the relentless sun searing his skin as he worked. His arm was crusted over with blood, the skin freshly scarring over the scorched Valanese tattoo. Twist. Pluck. Peel. It was a familiar rhythm, and he was grateful now that he did not need to think about his actions as he worked—his thoughts were too busy otherwise.

He could not stop thinking about that hooded woman: Tsaya. Who was she? What did she want? There was a part of him, undeniably, that was attracted to her. She carried an allure with her, a natural, exotic beauty that Ma’sal had never seen before. Even now, at the mere thought of her, he could feel his pulse speed and his blood burn.

And yet, there was a fear that filled him as he thought of that garb that she wore, that featureless robe that hid so much of her. Was she like the others, twisted and malformed underneath that robe? Was her flawless skin a mere illusion; were her rosy lips secretly burnt and cracked? He could not help but wonder this, for a part of him feared that she was perfect—too perfect to be true.

A sudden prick of pain stabbed through his fingers, and Ma’sal realized that he had been growing careless with his ruminations. Damnit. He sucked at his pricked thumb, feeling the stinging pain that seemed to wake him up ever slightly out of this hazy dream that he had lulled himself into.

Standing up slightly, he looked around with a bleary gaze to see the other men that were working in the fields. How many of these men do I know, despite working with them for nearly a month? He knew the answer to that easily—none. A harder question then. How many of their faces do I remember? A part of him stumbled over that, for he had felt confident that he remembered at least some of them.

The man with the red beard—no, he died days ago. The young one, with the dull blue eyes—but they found his body on the rocks two days ago. He went through that short list of faces he had in his mind, realizing slowly that he knew none of these men that stood only a few paces from him. He didn’t know their names, didn’t know their faces. If they died and someone else took their place, he would not have known. He would not have cared.

A tremor ran down his spine at that thought. Do they think the same of me then? That thought in turn led to another, more harrowing, thought.

Do they think?

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say that these were men. But he watched their mechanical motions as they plucked the bloodthorn fruits. He watched their dead eyes, watched as they moved like little more than husks of men, dried out by this insufferable sun. Do they think?

Did I think? That question in turn made him blink in surprise as he realized the answer was no. He had not thought when he was sold as a slave. He had not thought as he starved on the ship that carried here, to this crow-cursed wasteland. He had not thought as he bled blood and mind toiling in these fields. He had been numb. He had been a husk, just like these laborers.

Tsaya had woken him up.

Tsaya. He clung to that name desperately, like a drowning man desperately grasping for an anchor. She had filled his mind, filled his thoughts ever since meeting her. She had given him life, had breathed it back into his dead husk. More than anything else, he found himself burning to see her once more, even if it was in the dark of the night. His heart pumped faster at the mere thought, his hands dancing with a frenetic energy.

Energy. How long had it been since he had last felt excitement? How long had it been since he had last felt alive? Too long. Ma’sal raised a dark hand up to meet his eyes, the fingers coming away wet with unbidden tears. He was alive.

He had been dead, like the rest of the men damned to toil in these fields under the heat. He had been dead, but Tsaya had given him life.

And so, as his thoughts once more turned to Tsaya, he once more thought of her offer. Twist. Pluck. Peel. What was it that she was offering—the chance to join her? No but it was not just her, it was the rest of the hooded men as well. Twist. Pluck. Peel. Just who were these hooded men, then? Acolytes in service to some god? He remembered the coven that had been chanting in circle that night, proffering themselves in worship. Would he have to join them?

Twist. Pluck. Peel. He was afraid of that—he admitted it readily. He was afraid of those hooden men, with mangled flesh and ruined voices. He was afraid of that towering spire, that twisted temple of shadow that seemed to swallow the sunlight. He was afraid of them.

Why? Why be afraid?

It was a soft thing, almost like a whisper. Ma’sal nearly mistook it for his own thoughts, yet this was something different—something alien. It hissed with a faint echo, like flowing sand, like a thousand voices, and it seemed unmistakably ancient.

Ma’sal was not sure why, but he trusted that voice. It spoke reason. Why was he afraid? That they might kill him? He was already dying, doomed to die in these fields. What could the hooded men take from him that he had not lost already?

The more that he thought about it, the more appealing the notion seemed. The hooded men had the finest meals, had the shadowed robes that hid them from the sun. They did not have to work, and prayer was nothing new to Ma’sal. He remembered watching Ma and Yes’san pray in the old Valanese temples in Ossia. That god had never answered his prayers—perhaps this new god even might.

As the sun began to set, Ma’sal made up his mind. The whistle trilled again—stop, come. He dropped the last fruit into the basket, trudging his way back towards the hooded man. Yet, as he was making his way over, there was a sudden tug on his arm.

“Please,” someone whispered behind him, and Ma’sal whirled around in surprise. He found one of the laborers begging behind him. The young man was nearly bone-thin, his skin deathly pallid and his eyes ravenous. It was a moment before Ma’sal understood what he wanted—the man’s basket was not nearly enough for even two tokens.

He would be going hungry tonight.

“Anything, please? Just a couple of your fruits, p-please?” he begged. Ma’sal hated the sound of his voice—it was hoarse and desperate. It sounded too much like Yes’san begging for Pa to stop, stop. Ma’sal tore himself away from the begging man, ignored the wail that came out from the man.

“Please!” the man cried out, and Ma’sal covered his ears with his hands in panic, feeling his heart pumping out a deadly rhythm in his skull. Thud. Thud. It was a moment before he realized that the man was no longer begging him, but rather anyone.

“Please? Please!” He trudged towards the other laborers as well, begging for something, anything. Yet one by one, they all turned him away. Stop it, Ma’sal whispered inwardly. Stop that.

Finally, realizing that none of the others were willing to help him, the young man let out a chilling laugh. Ma’sal hated that laugh—it sounded just like Pa that night. He ran over to the side of the cliff, that skeletal figure seemingly already dead as he flung himself off the edge onto the rocks below. Ma’sal closed his eyes—he couldn’t look. Yet his mind filled in what happened, and Ma’sal saw Pa’s face staring back at him.

No. No more of this, he thought desperately, mindlessly picking up the bloodfruit that he had dropped before making his way back to the tent. No more. No more.

No more.

“You… I’m sorry?” asked the rasping voice from behind that hood. It was a peculiar sensation, talking to something that was faceless.

“I—I’ve spoken with the night. I wish to join the temple.” Ma’sal repeated, feeling his palms grow sweaty and his fingers trembling. Where the words right? He thought that he had remembered them correctly from what Tsaya had said, but now that the moment had come doubt bit into him like a viper.

“You have… spoken with the night? Curious.” The hooded man paused for a moment, as if considering something. Ma’sal found himself unable to look up, unable to peer into the depths of that shadowed cowl. Without a face, without expressions to read, it was as if he was talking to a mirror. “And what did it say?”

Ma’sal paused in shock, caught off guard, and his thoughts fled him in that instant. His throat worked, but no sound came out. What was he supposed to say? But then, of its own accord, he heard himself talk.

“Why be afraid?”

He was not sure why, but he thought he saw a smile behind that hood of shadows.