《Never-Ending Days [A Progression Fantasy]》


 Chapter 1 - Endless Sunlight

    <blockquote>


    The Destroyer looms above all,


    A gaze never-leaving,


    burning what once stood tall,


    all-encompassing.


    A prisoner walks the sandy field,


    steadily walking away,


    freedom he seeks with iron will,


    the Warden stares at him every day.


    Evil sleeps when heroes wake,


    in shadows where the demons hide,


    yet solace is found by Banisher¡¯s Lake,


    Her gaze turns the tide.


    - Divine Writings, opening excerpt.


    </blockquote>


    GONG!


    ¡°Urgh¡­¡±


    GONG!


    ¡°Not¡­ now¡­¡±


    GONG!


    ¡°Huh¡±. The words escaped his mouth as his eyelids half-opened, uncovering a pair of bloodshot eyes. His vision unblurred to the ceiling of his abode, a dark cramp cave, held up by desiccated walls of dirt and stone. Lying on the thin woven mat placed on the floor, a stark naked adolescent boy took his time waking ¡ª stretching his well-worn muscles.


    ¡°Boy! Get your lazy bald head out here this second or I''ll throw your rations to the beasts,¡± a hoarse voice erupted from behind the cave door.


    The threat worked as the boy jumped from the bed, pausing just a second to let his blood keep up. ¡°I¡¯m up! I¡¯m up! Just wait a minute, old man.¡±


    More grumbles left his mouth as he quickened his pace and parted the fabric door. Greeting him was a tall, dark man with short, black hair. A stained white cloak covered his entire muscular body, exposing only his head. A wooden tablet and a gong in either hand.


    The man paused for a moment as his eyes inspected the boy¡¯s naked form, quickly glossing over his eyes, narrowing ?as it passed over his head. ¡°Botuk, shave that stubble before I burn it off.¡±


    Sheepishly, Botuk brushed the top of his head, feeling the prickly stubble that had grown in the past three days. ¡°Right away foreman,¡± he dipped back into the dark cave to bring out his bronze skinning knife and a small copper hand mirror.


    ¡°Today''s ration is light, only two bowls of water and a bowl of meat,¡± said the old man, gesturing to the linen sack beside him.


    Shaving his head on the spot, Botuk asked, ¡°Fresh or¡­¡±


    ¡°It''s dried,¡± interrupted the foreman. Sensing more questions, he continued, ¡°Take it up with the overseer.¡±


    ¡°She''s surfacing?¡± The old man nodded. ¡°Today?¡± Nod.


    ¡°She''ll arrive in four hours at the opening. Be there with the other collectors.¡± The old man, having said all he needed to say, gave Botuk his sack of rations, then turned to leave.


    ¡®That''ll be double time this morning,¡¯ Botuk mused and sighed. He opened his sack of rations and ate his portion of meat in the dim light of his cave entrance. The corridor outside his personal cave ¡ª just slightly more lit by the light source in the main throughway.


    Gong! Gong!


    The same ringing from further within the corridor broke Botuk out of his musings as he hurried back inside with his last bowl of water. His free hand tied the fabric doorway close, ensuring the inside was free from wayward peeking.


    With a gentle touch, Botuk overturned his sleeping mat, revealing cracked loose stone and a crude ceramic container hidden beneath. He deftly removed the lid and, with a practised hand, poured in his last bowl of water. The glass bowl was opaque, revealing a dirty green. Yet side by side, the ceramic looked even cruder.


    ¡®209. That should be enough,¡¯ Botuk calculated. The rippling water hid his reflection.


    <hr>


    Minutes later, a lightly clothed Botuk strolled down the throughway, a cavernous path that was bone dry and, at its end, narrowed to the point of claustrophobia. He was exiting, so with each step, the path widened, and a searing light source at its end glared into his eyes. A toasty heat accompanied the glare, fixing heat and sweat directly onto Botuk''s uncovered face.


    ¡°Chilly day today,¡± a familiar voice appeared from within the glare.


    ¡°Yeah, first time in months I didn''t wake up coughing sand,¡± replied Botuk. He barely looked at his partner as he fell into lockstep beside her. ¡°Rita, you heard?¡±


    ¡°Queen bitch finally showing her ghostly self, I would say I''m surprised, but lately Her Spookiness has been surfacing like clockwork,¡± quipped Rita. Her voice was clear and full, only muffled by a shawl covering her head and face.


    Botuk, not waiting for another hint, wrapped his shawl around his head. Giving him a slight relief from the heat and glare emanating from the large mirror that they were approaching at the cavern intersection up ahead.


    ¡°Hold on,¡± said Rita, tugging his arm, blocking Botuk from continuing left. ¡°The mirror needs more polish. I could barely see outside my cave.¡±


    Now standing to the side of the mirror at the intersection of this cavern, a beautiful construct, as tall as two men, emerged behind the glare. Built on a robust base of stone and metal, it held a circular reflective surface polished to a fine sheen. Unmoving, as the massive weight fixed it to the ground.


    An illusory shimmer of heat enveloped the mirror. Warping its image, but still failed to hide the reddish tint which identified the metal as bronze. A dull blue-green patina coated the back, its edges creeping onto the polished surface.


    ¡°Yup! This here needs a good scrub.¡± Rita pointed at the corrosion.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that bad,¡± replied Botuk dismissively.


    ¡°Hmph! Not all of us have eyes like you,¡± she scribbled a complaint on some ragged fabric. ¡°What kind of work are these downers doing?! I¡¯ll give them a piece of my mind.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t go crazy, just tell them the narrow-grade Bronze Mirror on Meripi intersection needs maintenance. You piss them off again and they¡¯ll never fix it.¡± Botuk patted his partner''s back, half-jokingly and half-concerned.


    Leaving the fixated Rita, he continued his walk left into the larger cavern. With a wider base and a taller ceiling, it resembled the narrow cavern he had just left. The air in both was devoid of moisture. Passing by multiple other bronze mirror intersections, occasionally giving mild greetings to the familiar faces he recognised.


    On his right, another mirror went by as a commotion ahead forced him to slow down. A sizeable crowd of people, each wearing a thin white cloak and a white shawl, blocked his way.


    From behind, silhouetted by the blinding light, their thin clothes provided little to no privacy. Light from the larger mirror up ahead exposed their bare forms. Not that any embarrassment showed on their veiled faces.


    No, the crowd was more engrossed at a sight not commonly seen, a bronze mirror in all its glistening enchantment, flat on the cave floor, as though it was once molten, then solidified. Still, above its rapidly cooling mass was a sight even more rare.


    From between the masses of bodies, Botuk caught only a glimpse of a red form. To get a better view, he nudged and manoeuvred his way to the front, muttering apologies to no one in particular. His gaze lowered.


    Right there amidst the scrap sat a non-veiled figure, the skin on their face charred and peeled. Their fused-open eyelids looked grim, accompanied with lips that were as melted as the mirror beneath them. Robes fluttered in non-existent wind, dyed in the signature red of the Warden. Here in plain view ¡ª a failed acolyte of the Gods.


    A hush fell upon all who set their eyes on the failed acolyte. Approaching newcomers, rapt in their conversations, were turning silent at the crimson sight.


    ¡®What is he doing here?!¡¯ screamed Botuk internally. His veil covered his bulging eyes. ¡®Did he do this?,¡¯ every worrying thought ran through his mind.


    Bump. In his shock, Botuk''s spirit almost left him when a nudge came from his side. Taking a moment to force his heart to slow, he swung his head sideways, only for his gaze to be met by Rita. Her usually boisterous self, now subdued. Her gaze focused on some charred sticks camouflaged by the blackened ground.


    ¡®Sticks? No, those are bones!¡¯ Alarmed, his eyes scanned the scene and then rested on a charred rock. A second later, his eyes adjusted, revealing three sunken holes in the rock. ¡®What? Who?¡¯ his thoughts spiralled when another bump by Rita jolted him back.


    Botuk didn''t need to look at her to know what she wanted to say. The failed acolyte was standing, and with that motion came heat. Emanating from the melted bronze, it buffeted the onlookers like a tidal wave. Like a dam had disappeared. To Botuk, it felt like being baked in front of the glass-refining mirror at Megat intersection.


    ¡®This heat this deep inside is impossible,¡¯ grimaced Botuk, his skin drying out even under his veil. Yet just as fast as the heat arrived, it left, and with it, the acolyte. Parting the crowd as he walked towards the opposite of where Botuk came from ¡ª where Botuk was heading.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°What are you looking at, you mangy sobs!¡± shouted a foreman from within the crowd. ¡°Move this junk to the side! Someone else take those bones to the opening.¡± Following orders, a nearby collector kneeled and started picking.


    ¡°Ooh, let me!¡± said Rita cheerfully, as she swiped a pair of black bones from the kneeling collector¡¯s hands, the rock-like skull already tucked under her arms.


    The crowd dispersed, some pushing solid bronze to the side, but most walked away to their stations. A few helpers, hoping to gain favour from the enthusiastic lass, handed Rita the charred bones they had found.


    A couple of curious onlookers joined the foreman, now standing at the entrance to the previously unremarkable intersection. Botuk joined them. Before, the crack in the wall was home to at least a dozen collectors. Now, with their source of light being rubble on the ground, there was only a featureless-black entrance greeting the group.


    The darkness almost felt comforting to Botuk, inviting him to step closer. The more he looked, the more enchanted he became. He stared into it. The abyss only got darker and the light on the edges of his vision got dimmer. No more was this darkness or just the absence of light. Through his eyes, it was a black fog.


    ¡°Someone needs to get those people out,¡± said a young lad. His high-pitched voice, Botuk gleaned, was full of life and naivete.


    An older gruff chimed in with a scoff, ¡°Feel free to save them, boy. Just get a long rope and another fool to hold it.¡± Unsurprisingly, the boy spouted a glare.


    ¡°Any heroes today are out of luck,¡± intervened the foreman. ¡°That mirror got shafted an hour ago; the sods left in there are better off dead. This hole¡¯s getting sealed.¡±


    The older collector took another chance to nag the young boy.


    Leaving them to their arguments, Botuk approached the foreman and asked, ¡°Foreman, the mirror, what¡ª¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t ask, boy. Either get some rocks to cover this hole or get lost,¡± said the foreman dismissively. Botuk wanted to press on, but one look at the foreman¡¯s expression dissuaded him. Taking the hint, Botuk gave one last look at the black fog and went his way.


    Curiosity filled Botuk¡¯s mind, about the melted mirror and the red-robed man. But for the darkened cavern, there was nothing to think about. Because within these vast interconnected caverns, there were many rules.


    Rules that governed between men, and rules that governed between men and gods. However, in reality, only one rule exists ¡ª without light, you are lost.


    In these depths, light governed all life. The growth of plants, the smelting of metal, and even the worship of gods. At every intersection, and in every corner, stood large bronze mirrors reflecting light into every inhabited cavern. Its ultimate source: the gigantic constructs at the opening. But for simple collectors like Botuk, it¡¯s merely a tool for navigation. At any point within these depths, all lit paths led to the outside.


    In his twenty years of age, Botuk considered himself an experienced collector. His many healed scars proved it. These jagged caverns were as familiar as the back of his hands. Yet, he could only think of two people he had met who wandered into darkness and made their way back.


    One was an old smith, whose mind had left him, though still lucid enough to strike metal. Botuk saw him wander into a small unlit cavern, mistakenly thinking it was his own, mumbling as he went.


    For thirty minutes Botuk spent howling into the darkness before the old man walked out, still mumbling and none the wiser. Intrigued, Botuk spent hours every day with the old man, trying to tease out any usable information between his ramblings.


    The only fruits of his efforts were a way to hammer an edge on a bronze blade, and a promised date with a daughter he wasn¡¯t sure existed. His efforts fell flat when, on the sixth day, he found the old man lying on his sleeping mat, his chest still.


    The second person he saw was Rita. When he was a third his height, she took his toys and hid them as a game. Sometimes, she would be mean and hid them in pitch-black corners or cracks, teasing him to take them back. She would wait until she saw mists in his eyes before retrieving it. Thankfully, the game stopped when Botuk learned how to fake his tears.


    The new game she came up with, however ¡ª Botuk looked at the smirking, unveiled Rita ¡ª was infinitely more annoying.


    ¡°Learn anything?¡± asked Rita, failing to hide her smug face. Her arm wrapped around some linen, the poor man¡¯s burnt remains bundled snugly inside.


    ¡°No, the foreman didn¡¯t want to say,¡± replied Botuk. His mind knew what was coming.


    ¡°Aw Botuk, you need to bump up your charm.¡± Her finger poked Botuk¡¯s cheek. ¡°Look at me! Want to know what I¡¯ve got?¡± With a flourish, her finger turned, poking at her own cheek.


    Botuk stared at her silently for a few seconds, then resigned. ¡°How much?¡±


    Her hands rubbed her smooth chin, as though mimicking a beard. A stranger staring right at her contemplating face might easily become infatuated. Then, combined with her outgoing personality, one might even call her popular.


    However, Botuk saw right through that. Behind that contemplating face hid a cheeky grin; that outgoing personality, merely a stepping stone for future manipulation.


    Once she felt comfortable with her pause, she mouthed, ¡°Five.¡±


    ¡°Fine,¡± like clockwork, Botuk replied.


    ¡°Tsk! You¡¯re no fun,¡± said Rita, clicking her tongue. She turned away and reattached her veil.


    ¡®Now 204,¡¯ He followed.


    <hr>


    ¡°Do you want those five or not?¡± said Botuk, now annoyed. They were further along the same cavern, almost reaching the next mirrored intersection, and still not a word left Rita¡¯s mouth. ¡°I¡¯m not changing the price just because you¡¯re sulking.¡±


    Finally, something audible came from Rita. ¡°I¡¯m confirming what I heard. Look!¡±


    Cresting above the stone floor, a familiar sight appeared. On their right was a melted mirror, and opposite was a dark cavern entrance. A crowd of white-robes surrounded both, though clearly fewer than the previous intersection. Botuk scanned the crowd, but there was no red to be seen.


    ¡°Apparently, the next one is also a bust,¡± said Rita, deeming to inform. ¡°Our section had three narrow-grade mirrors that glowed then liquified more than an hour ago.¡±


    ¡°How? Was it the acolyte?¡± The last word he said so quietly that Rita could barely hear him.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem like it. That guy came later.¡± Botuk didn¡¯t reply, so she continued. ¡°My source didn¡¯t hear it directly, but they said that they heard it from someone else who overheard the red guy talking to a foreman. Something about him being there to clean it.¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t clean¡ª, Ouch!¡±


    ¡°Let me finish,¡± said Rita, elbowing his ribs. ¡°That source said that when the red guy came, the bronze was still glowing hot. And in just a few minutes, the metal fully cooled.¡±


    With that revelation, they dropped the conversation. Neither Botuk nor Rita commented as they passed the next melted mirror. Both of them walked in silence.


    His mouth drew straight as Botuk¡¯s mind swam with visions of the past. A familiar man, surrounded by flames, laughing. All around him were flames and burning men. From afar, onlookers watched, mesmerised, their faces in awe. In worship.


    Beside him, Rita stared forward. Her face was serene, as if she paid no attention or gave importance to the failed acolyte. Her eyes, however, glazed over.


    Their expressions differ, but their thoughts were the same, ¡®Blessing of the Gods.¡¯


    Eventually, their oblivious walk could no longer continue as more and more heat penetrated their veil. Light and heat from the large bronze mirror ahead was now overwhelming. And with their pace, it will only get worse.


    This mirror was unlike the others they had passed. Not only was it intact, the construct was almost double the height and width. Though without this large mirror, the cavern Botuk and Rita came from would be in complete darkness. Their personal caves, uninhabitable.


    It was with this knowledge that Botuk¡¯s face flashed an expression of concern. The light-reflecting surface showed damage. Scattered across the surface were tiny beads of bronze, as though heat melted parts of the bronze into droplets, then left to cool.


    Errant light beams that bounced off those beads scattered everywhere, brightening the surfaces nearby with a gentle luster. If it didn''t take away from the light that was supposed to illuminate his cave, Botuk would let it be, but alas, he valued his life more than beauty.


    He wondered if this damage was even fixable. ¡®Not without a total replacement,¡¯ he thought. To have completely melted three narrow-grade mirrors and permanently marked a wide-grade, the source must have been intense.


    ¡°See you later, Botuk. I have something the other way,¡± said Rita, excusing herself.


    ¡°Are you sure? You know you can¡¯t skip meeting the overseer.¡± Although Rita was likable, the overseer was definitely beyond her charms.


    She snickered. ¡°Your worried face is cute, Botuk.¡± His face, still deadpanned. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. Just save a spot for me.¡±


    Her back illuminated, following the cavern inwards. They were at the main throughway, a giant chasm running deep into the earth, facilitating smooth travel for all its users. Even as she walked further away, her voice echoed, peaking above the ambient chatter, greeting and chattering with her many friends.


    According to his knowledge, Rita was a collector like him. Her bleached white clothes proved that. No other role exposed them to as much sunlight to attain that signature tint. Likewise, he had seen Rita topside ¡ª occasionally.


    Yet, from Botuk¡¯s perspective, her schedule was erratic. A collector like him started the day in their personal cave, then went to the opening to shovel sand, repeating as necessary.


    However, Rita moved around the entire underground labyrinth, doing anything but. Certain days she was helping smelters, on another day, farmers. Botuk pondered on how she got away with not being at the opening.


    ¡®How many foremen has she charmed?¡¯ A question locked in his thoughts, never spoken.


    His steps took him further away from Rita and closer to the opening. More and more people surrounded him, most strutting with him and some just passing by. Unlike before, people heavily used these caverns. They formed the main trunk, connecting the deeper halls to the opening. Looking around, Botuk could barely discern a familiar face within the sea of traffic.


    The temperature kept increasing, both from the radiative heat reflected by the giant-grade mirror at the opening, and the conductive heat through the cavern walls. This close to the surface, the heat felt painful. Combined with the white sea of collectors, the smell wasn¡¯t any better. Botuk gave his shawl another wrap around his face, doubling the layers.


    The main entrance into these underground caverns formed a giant square. The shape was clearly unnatural. Evidence of ancient masonry littered the entrance. From the plumb walls and levelled floor that faded into cobbled stone towards the interior, to the imposing pillars that held up the earth overhanging the entrance. Masons were moving large stones into place, forming the foundation of a new pillar.


    Rita once said that they didn¡¯t need these pillars, that the overhang was more than stable. Though Botuk disagreed, centuries had passed since they built the first pillar, it warranted great caution.


    With those masons running about, the opening looked busier than normal. Masses of white cloaks were milling about at speed. Entering and exiting the other three entrances, which were similarly carved into the outer walls. Their motions weaved through the pillars, taking the shortest route while avoiding other people. Some were sweeping the floor, pushing sand into glass vats. Yet, all avoided the centre ¡ª with good reason.


    Just looking at the centre was blinding. Though with experience, Botuk¡¯s eyes adjusted. Erected in the middle, right below the open sky, was a dais. Direct sunlight pummelled the raised platform.


    A narrow ditch, dug as deep as can be, encircled it ¡ª a conduction barrier. Without it, the floor at the opening would be unworkable. Smooth sandstone topped the ditch, preventing accidents and resource loss, an improvement to the taut fabric covers of yesteryears.


    His eyes moved upwards, now fully adjusted. On this dais were four truly gigantic bronze mirrors, each reflecting sunlight in a cardinal direction. Compared to the mirrors he passed earlier, these were in a league of their own.


    As circular as the others, each stood upon a thick iron base. Its foundations dug into the ground beneath, rendering it immovable even against the shifting of the earth. Black stone encased every exposed metal, whether iron or bronze, shielding it from direct rays.


    Through his veil, the polished surface glowed with blinding intensity, forcing him to look away. He had seen that glow countless times, a mixture of the reflected harsh sunlight and the radiance of heated bronze.


    It made a beautiful sight, Botuk thought, as he walked towards the centre. His destination was a group of collectors standing at attention.


    A small breeze caressed his figure, pushing dust into the air, blowing sand from the desert above onto the dais.


    Without delay, a group of broom-carrying collectors extended their long brooms towards the platform. Because of the length, two collectors wielded each broom. With a huff, both men pushed their broom forward, crossing the shade boundary and into direct sunlight.


    Made of iron, encased in wood, and firmly wrapped in water-soaked hides. Yet despite their craftsmanship, the brooms immediately combusted. Steam hissed violently off the pole, its shrill, banshee-like screech pierced the air. The brooms¡¯ iron bristles glowed red, turning whiter every second, flexing as they touched the ground with a thud.


    On cue, each pair wretched their broom with all their strength. Some skinnier collectors sprinted backwards to compensate. Both successfully swept the sand off the dais.


    Neither cheers nor flourishes accompanied them, for the regularity of this perilous event made it mundane. To these collectors, only the sulphurous scent of burning hide greeted their success.


    They huddled together, dumping their flaming brooms in a trough, then extinguishing with old sand. Their roles offered no rest as each picked up a smaller broom and swept the newly harvested sand into vats, barely filling one.


    Once filled, they would hand the vat to sifters, who then repeatedly sifted it to separate useful minerals and metals from useless dust. With the addition of mining, this provided Botuk¡¯s community with basic materials needed to survive. As for the exotic, there was trade.


    ¡°Come here Botuk, today¡¯s a quick shift,¡± said a foreman, hailing him. ¡°Some big shot¡¯s coming up, and I want all of you to be presentable.¡±


    With speed, Botuk stood at attention in front of this foreman. Modat was his name, though Botuk only referred to him by his title. A group of collectors surrounded the foreman ¡ª highly experienced, but were acquaintances at best.


    ¡°Just as before, all twelve of you will team together. No clumping!¡± said Foreman Modat. He stared into the eyes of each of them, making sure they understood. ¡°Efficiency is key.¡± We all nodded.


    ¡°Good!¡± He clapped his hands once in emphasis. Then, his tone dropped, ¡°Something¡¯s off today. The melting mirrors are spooking everyone.¡± Another pause, as he licked the front of his teeth in contemplation.


    Then with a resigned sigh, ¡°For your safety, I will drop the required time before exchanges from thirty minutes to twenty. This doesn¡¯t mean your required load will be lighter. I expect a full vat from each of you.¡±


    ¡°Yes foreman!¡± All shouted, some more enthusiastic than others.


    ¡°Good! Your equipment¡¯s ready and waiting.¡± To the side, there was a stone box, its lid conveniently open. Inside were a dozen shovels, lifted sandals, and a folded stack of brown cloaks.


    ¡°Do this right and maybe the overseer will give rewards.¡±


    With a clap, the foreman ended his speech. Leaving Botuk and the rest to their own devices. A veteran group like Botuk¡¯s did not need micromanagement.


    Botuk approached the stone box, a permanent fixture near the dais, wearing the sandals and grabbing a cloak. The brown fabric was dense, especially compared to the translucent whites he wore. Though for his role, he wouldn¡¯t dare be without it. Over his white clothes, the garment was more poncho than cloak. It completely covered his body, no armholes to compromise its seal.


    The heavy cloak encapsulated his head, leaving no opening for his face. Botuk would be effectively blind if not for the thinner weave made for his eyes. Through the mesh, it gave not perfect vision, but enough.


    A shovel slid under the poncho. So restricted was Botuk that he needed another collector to hand him the shovel.


    ¡°Thanks.¡± His voice sounded loud to his ears, but he knew that the helper outside only heard a whisper. Replying to Botuk, the helper tapped his shoulder once.


    Tap, Tap, Tap. Three more taps. Everyone was ready.


    Deep breath. Forward. Fast.


    One foot in front of the other. Botuk stepped onto the dais.


    His figure, wrapped in brown, combust into flames.

 Chapter 2 - Scorching Sands

    The sun stared at Botuk. The Warden and its oppressive gaze embodied the surface world, leaving no room for escape.


    Through his eye mesh, Botuk could only see the ground right in front of him. His eyes trained at his own shadow and the hard rock beneath. The slight uphill slope strained his frontal thighs.


    Behind him was a barren field. The ground was rocky, with specks of dust gently flying. Outcrops of bedrock marked the surface ¡ª smooth like weathered stone. A gentle headwind flowed sunwards, picking up more dust along the way. Eventually falling into the canyon, to be swept, then sifted.


    Though to a person walking through these lands, nothing hinted at the vast city beneath. There were no structures in sight, no farms or forests. The scenery left nothing to be desired, just a plastered field of brown.


    But to Botuk, the barren, featureless field was a source of pride. Pride in himself and pride in his profession. It was his effort, and the effort of all the collectors before him, that made this barren wasteland. A ring surrounding the canyon formed by scraping every bit of usable sand for decades on end.


    However, at this moment, with his weary thighs, he wished his predecessors hadn''t been as successful. Since the further he hunted for sand, the further away he went. The friction of his heavy brown cloak, now carbonised black by the sun, resisted him with every step.


    Botuk had a time limit. Bits of charred fabric fell off the cloak, leaving a trail and exposing new brown layers to the corrosion.


    It took Botuk five minutes to reach the edge, traversing around increasingly jagged rock faces. His sweat accumulated under the poncho, and its humidity suffocated his every breath. A final crest of the hill and Botuk was the furthest he had ever gone.


    Taking a chance, he averted his gaze from his shadow and scanned ahead, squinting. The glare off the surface pierced his eyes like pointed daggers, piercing right through the mesh, evaporating the moisture from his cornea.


    An endless tapestry surrounded the wastelands, a quilt of gold and ochre accented by inky streams. The vibrant colours swapped and shifted to the mercy of fickle winds.


    Botuk wished he could stare longer, but with each second, he feared the image would irreversibly burn into his retina. Instead, his eyes chose a small, nondescript mound of sand right below him. The beautiful scene tucked away in his memories.


    He considered himself lucky. The others must have been tired or distracted, allowing him to climb the canyon first, which earned him first pick on his route. Like all first pickers, he chose windwards.


    Botuk could only imagine being last, having to suffer the sunwards path. There, the rays of sunlight directly shone onto the face. Their eyes kept shut, and no convenient shadow for relief. It was good that he was never that unlucky.


    A powerful gust flew over his poncho, its weight prevented it from fluttering. Bits of sand blew off the small mound, grains sticking into him. He needed to fill one vat. With just a shovel and twenty minutes per trip, it would take hours. Any other day, that was plenty, but today, he had a schedule to keep. The overseer was surfacing for a reason, and he had to be there early.


    Botuk placed himself next to the small dune, being careful not to sink into the hot sand. The raised sandals worked wonders.


    His arms pushed the poncho from inside, causing the protective outfit to inflate over the side of the mound, aiming to envelop as much sand under its insulation. Each flap added more sand, but the more Botuk pushed, and the more charred flakes fell off. The action limited his time, but the collectors¡¯ work was impossible otherwise.


    Under the stifling heat of direct sunlight, nothing mundane could have survived. Not Botuk, nor his basic shovel. This magical brown garment made his entire profession possible, sacrificing its layers to keep him alive.


    Thus, with a grunt, Botuk started shovelling. For each scoop that made contact, the heat slowly transferred from the sand to the iron shovel, cooling the grains just enough for Botuk¡¯s grand innovation.


    ¡°Argh!¡± yelled Botuk, biting his tongue in recoil. His already strained breathing seized as his innards and muscular organs screamed in displeasure.


    Willing himself through the pain, his hands continued. ¡®Only today,¡¯ the words repeated in the mind like a mantra. Another shovel of sand moved towards his torso, its residual heat crinkling his chest hairs.


    Now with foresight, he released the hot sand into another makeshift pocket, made by precisely folding his white robes. A second grunt got out, though now between clenched teeth. The thin, airy fabric provided no barrier between the scalding sand and his raw skin. Even without looking, he felt it turning red.


    Despite that, this pain was worth the effort ¡ª shovelling more hot sand into his ad hoc pockets ¡ª a small sacrifice for the future.


    He felt his weight doubled, surely an exaggeration by his strained muscles. Though he lost count after the twentieth shovel of sand tied to his body. However, time was of the essence, and with a few more loads, he would succeed.


    It had been ten minutes since he caught the Warden¡¯s gaze, spending half reaching the dunes. With the weight he now carried, Botuk had to return post-haste should he keep Foreman Modat¡¯s new allotment.


    He sighed, still unsure of the true cause for this caution, nor if it would repeat. Taking a moment to relax, his calloused palms loosened the grip on the shovel. His arms were free, unburdened by sand, unlike the rest of his body. Now, he just hoped his legs could hold.


    The way back was simple. A trail of black ¡ª now grey ¡ª ash led the way. No exploration needed. In time, the ash would turn white, and like dust, scattering into the wind. Though for now, it lessened Botuk¡¯s mental burden. His brain was on autopilot as every thought was used to walk straight. The bald head cocked low, eyes closed, blinking open only to check for ash.


    Botuk severely underestimated his speed while encumbered. Without the additional weight, he''d be standing at the canyon¡¯s edge by now, tasting release.


    By now, he knew why other collectors didn¡¯t invent his grand innovation earlier. They had imagination in plenty, they just weren¡¯t stupid ¡ª or, in his case, desperate.


    For the last minute or two, his lungs heaved for every breath, fighting to inhale the humid air. Compared to the start, each step back was triple the effort. Botuk hoped the amount would be enough, because a second trip would push him to collapse.


    This close to the edge, some murmurs seeped through the thick fabric. In worry or in jest, he did not know. From the outside, Botuk conceded, his form might have looked funny. Like a snail wearing a shell of dirt. Though his lack of a blood trail must have stymied them from making a scene. The amount of sand he released, however, would definitely cause it.


    At the canyon, Botuk hung part of his poncho over the edge. Leaning his shovel against a leg as his hands unravelled his makeshift pockets. Sand flowed down by the clump-full, falling with a thud onto the platform below. His legs and back cheered for every clump fallen.


    Botuk took a few seconds to refocus, massaging his legs for relief. His entire body told him to lie down, though the rational part of his brain refused. This was not the place for relaxation. He needed to climb down before his limbs gave out.


    Amusingly, he contemplated just jumping. He was a hero, and he made a scene. Surely, some collector down there deemed his actions worthy enough to catch him.


    ¡®Maybe they were already down there, waiting to catch their hero.¡¯ Botuk chuckled at the fantasy.


    It was just collecting sand. Other than his fellow collectors and his foreman, he doubted anyone would care. ¡®Rita would like this story,¡¯ he smiled with melancholy.


    Wasting enough time, he placed his feet over the edge and climbed down. Scaling up and down was easy. Carved rungs peppered the sides of the canyon, deep enough for Botuk to grip even over the thick poncho.


    Once he reached the overhang, Botuk just released his grip, landing on his feet with a thunk. The small breeze he created as he landed scattered the surrounding sand, earning him annoyed looks from the broom-wielders.


    ¡®Not exactly a hero''s welcome,¡¯ he quipped, stopping his train of thought when he noticed Rita''s influence creeping in.


    ¡°Botuk, my good boy, handle your friend, then come speak to me,¡± said Foreman Modat. The cheerful tone was unnerving, causing a chill up his spine.


    The foreman was referring to the other poncho-wearing collector walking towards him. Their heavy garment, newly replaced, burst aflame as they crossed into the sunlight.


    Even with his sore muscles, Botuk complied. The lowest rung was too high for any collector to jump to without a boost and, as the other collector on the dais, they expect him to do so.


    Botuk grunted with what he hoped was the last grunt of the day. His muscles were crying, and it was just his luck that he had to boost the heavy one.


    ¡°Always knew you had it in you, Botuk.¡± The foreman grinned.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Botuk mumbled back, using the sound-insulating fabric to muffle his lack of speech. Unfortunately for him, he could not keep the poncho on for the entire conversation.


    ¡°Good! I''ll make sure everyone knows your dedication,¡± he said, laughing. ¡°You know Botuk, from now on, you''ll be the standard for the rest of them.¡±


    Black spots dotted his vision. To Botuk, this conversation could not end sooner.


    ¡°Yes, thank you foreman,¡± he replied, the words laced with faux-enthusiasm. In his heart, he apologised to his fellow collectors.


    ¡°One vat full in less than 20 minutes. Incredible! Rehydrate and get ready to go again. A few more collections and we''ll break every record.¡± He spoke faster than ever.


    Botuk''s eyes almost bulged out of his skull. ¡°I''m sorry foreman, I have completed my task,¡± he replied mechanically. ¡°And I cannot physically continue.¡±


    Foreman Modat frowned, then smiled thinly. ¡°Of course, my boy, you deserve some rest.¡± His eyes left Botuk.


    ¡°Now, because you''ve completed one trip, you can take one portion of water. Make it two because I''m generous.¡±


    ¡°Thank you for your generosity, foreman.¡±


    A wave off was Botuk''s signal to leave. He walked out of sight before collapsing on the hard ground. Eyes closed, too tired to care about the crowd judging him. They would ignore him soon enough.


    Lethargy filled his body, his mouth cracked and dried. Telltale signs of dehydration, and Botuk knew it. Everyone that lived by the grace of the Warden was intimately familiar with it.


    Passing out was not an option, but a brief rest couldn¡¯t hurt.


    <hr>


    Two hours later.


    Botuk''s body felt terrible, even worse than before. Now that the thrill of danger had passed, every bit of flesh oozed pain. If this was his body¡¯s punishment for his reckless actions, he relented.


    What was worse was the swelling on his right temple, both the pain and the latent embarrassment. To be woken up by a piece of gravel dropping onto his dome was not an experience he bore repeating. No sleep, no matter how enticing, was worth that awkwardness.


    Despite that, agony could not damper his excitement. If his legs were more cooperative, he would pace back and forth. Even the almost pitch-black cave Botuk slept in seemed brighter, the desiccated walls more pristine.


    Footsteps hurriedly went by his abode. It was almost time to gather. With both hands, he pushed himself upright and took one last look at his sleeping mat, making sure nothing hinted at what was underneath.


    Although stealing was rare in this isolated community and punishments were harsh, Botuk could not help but be paranoid.


    Once again he looked under the mat, ensuring that any interloper would only see common cracked stone beneath. He had saved up for two years and no thief would stop him.


    He just hoped it would be enough.


    Satisfied, Botuk left for the opening, navigating through the mirrored caverns. Like before, the crowds were suffocating. The collectors, who usually worked in shifts, were now all assembling by order of the overseer. Not to mention many others who had waited for this rare event, the overseer being one of them.


    Previously, the overseer had never surfaced, transmitting her orders through acolytes to the many foremen. However, for the last two years, the overseer has been surfacing every six months. The reason was obvious ¡ª trade.


    Isolation was never the default for the people in this canyon. Wandering caravans braved the desert between communities, connecting them through trade. Though for reasons unknown, the caravans stopped arriving. This trade drought lasted for a decade, which caused a food crisis.


    Roles were re-prioritised. Many former collectors had to take up the plough, though food anxiety remained years later. Luckily, the caravan trade restarted two years ago, and roles returned to the status quo.


    The crowd waited in anticipation, chattering with their friends. The noise from them was deafening. If there was anyone calling out to him, Botuk could not hear it. Leaning his back to a wall, he tried to scan heads but could not spot Rita. The overseer was also absent.


    An errant beat thumped across his chest, then a rhythm. Its crests and troughs mixed with the racket of the opening, waxing and waning with the beat. Awareness came first from the edges, spreading across the crowd as the thumps grew noticeable.


    Not long after, a buzz cut through the beat. Loose sand and dust lifted off the ground in a dance, taking on new life in its resonance. The humans fared worst, plugging their ears with fabric or their fingers.


    Thump. Louder.


    Conversations died down, all heads trained towards the dais. Through squinted eyes, some braved looking above, bearing the burning glare. The merchant caravan had arrived.


    Thump. Louder. Thump.


    Against the wall, it sounded like a hundred footsteps marching out of sync. The rumbles shook the ground and pieces of loose dirt fell off the overhang, covering the people below. Arguments erupted when a few collectors, unsteady on their feet, fell over.


    Silence.


    At the windward quadrant of the dais, the glare dimmed. Above, a triangular silhouette peeked over, casting a shadow on the canyon walls. The form hovered over the edge, watching the congregation beneath.


    Without warning, the buzzing restarted, stridulations bounced off the canyon walls in echoes, then crescendoed into a leap. For just a second, those who braved through squinted eyes caught sight of the beast.


    A triangular head burst forward, dragging along the rest of its elongated body. Its many legs tapered to a sharp point, widened as if preparing an embrace.


    The enormous beast landed on the dais with a gentle thump, cushioned by its many legs. Handily missing the four giant-grade mirrors on the dais with it. Now on an equal plane and under the illumination of sunlight, a Yirn beast wriggled to rest.


    Its long legs, accustomed to sand, failed to dig into the stone dais. The segments of its elongated body alternated between matte black and glossy ochre. Below it, spread an assortment of wide colourful fabrics, attached to the legs like a hammock.


    A Yirn was an inhabitant of the desert, the solitary creatures were cannibalistic in the wild. To the few collectors who have seen it, the elegant sight of a wild Yirn slithering between dunes was as rare as it was dangerous. Though, with the hammocks, any elegance evaporated.


    This was a merchant¡¯s beast, after all. To them, swiftness was important, but storage was supreme. A Yirn was fast to raise and cheap to feed. Also, at adulthood, its wide upper carapace ¡ª used to protect its legs from other Yirn ¡ª now functioned as an enlarged parasol, protecting the cargo and merchants underneath.


    A shout came from under its head. ¡°Give berth! Away! Give berth! Away!¡± the shrill man repeated ad nauseam. Such a weak shout coming from the enormous beast must have sounded jarring, as many did not bother to move.


    Only when the beast flexed its legs did they snap out of their reverie, shuffling away orderly. With a command, the beast stood from its brief rest, sliding its body off the dais and under the overhang. At full height, the creature was a quarter the height of the giant-grade mirrors next to it on the dais. Its length, however, was triple the width.


    Under the command of a foreman, workers carrying stone beams encircled the Yirn, taking care to avoid its legs. Simultaneously, several caravanners, workers in their own rights, slid out from their hammocks and unfastened thick pieces of wood.


    Together they laboured away, joining stone pillars and wooden trusses in coordination. Within a few minutes, they built a frame sturdy enough to hold up the beast.


    Another command and the beast''s legs relaxed, allowing the frame to take its sizable weight. The sight resembled a row of stalls, the frame as walls, and the long body of the Yirn as the roof. Once the workers covered the frames in fabric, the tent markets would be open for business.


    A thought went through Botuk''s mind. For his transaction, he needed to barter directly with the caravan leader ¡ª the disembarking stocky man wrapped in gaudily embroidered ultramarine robes.


    That action would invite undue attention to his intentions and surprising wealth. Even now, Botuk wondered if he was better off announcing his intentions, using his connections to grease any rusted wheels.


    ¡®No, better to lie low.¡¯ Botuk stopped second-guessing.


    The gawking died down as the chatter grew. He had precious minutes before the overseer arrived, unsure if the caravan leader would give him the time of day once he met the bigger fish.


    Botuk slipped through the crowd. The caravan leader would be in the biggest tent, right under the Yirn¡¯s head. Unlike the other stalls, this one was enclosed, its entrance flaps tied shut.


    Lines were being formed, orderly queues of customers waiting for their turn. Unsurprisingly, the stall selling fresh produce was the most popular, as it had been for the last three visits. Builders especially filled the wood stalls. They loved all wood as it broke their monotonous routine of stone and metal.


    The lines wrapped around the head, bunching up at the end, giving Botuk ample cover.


    A sash in the middle tied the tent flaps shut. Like curtain partitions, its purpose was to keep it closed rather than to prevent an entrance. With speed, Botuk could part the fabric and enter before it settled shut. He just needed a distraction.


    ¡®Rita, where are you?¡¯ His brows furrowed. It would be much easier if she were here.


    He didn¡¯t wait long before a sudden ear-splitting laugh came from a group of friends. The perpetrator quickly covered her mouth in embarrassment.


    Taking advantage, he crouched under the sash, falling onto his knees on the other side. Balance, while swiftly crouching, did not come naturally. Dusting himself off the ground, he came face to face with the end of a spear.


    A stocky man stared at Botuk. His eyes, blue like his robes, looked sunken in the soft light of the tent. A stiff arm held the ornate spear at the haft, anchoring the shaft by his armpits. The man¡¯s gaudy robes contrast the seriousness on his face.


    ¡°Speak,¡± said the man, gravel in his voice.


    The prepared words were stuck in Botuk¡¯s throat. Pressure mounted on his shoulders, his body froze and mind turned fuzzy. To Botuk, it felt like a lucid dream, awake but without agency.


    The man pushed the spear tip onto Botuk¡¯s chest, placing force to his sternum. Only then did Botuk awaken. The sensation was gone and his mind reoriented.


    ¡°I seek to purchase travel,¡± replied Botuk, short and to the point. Whatever that was, he did not want it repeated because of vague words.


    ¡°No, now leave.¡± The force on his chest grew, as though the man did not care if he pushed him out of the tent or impaled.


    ¡°Wait! I can pay, name your price,¡± shouted Botuk, his hands grasping the spear for dear life.


    Scoff. ¡°Sacred gems, all of it.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± His mind blanked. ¡®Gems? They¡¯re worthless,¡¯ he thought. ¡°Opals, diamonds. How many do you need?¡±


    As if expecting Botuk¡¯s words, the man sneered. ¡°You have nothing of value. I will say it again. Leave.¡±


    ¡°I have water, a large vat worth!¡± he said through gritted teeth. ¡°I don¡¯t¡ªjust take me to the next canyon city.¡±


    The force on his chest disappeared as the man jerked the spear back, pulling Botuk onto the ground. With a swish of the wrist, the spear twirled, then lurched onto a large table, resting on two bronze mounts.


    Taking his eyes off Botuk, he strutted onto the lavish chair opposite the table. All along the tent arrayed trinkets of metal and leather, infusing the people inside with mercantile spirit. Stacks of parchment lined his table, covering the polished wooden surface. Once comfortable, he eyed Botuk and raised his brow, judging the weak collector that still sat on the floor.


    Not wanting to seem slow, Botuk stood. His experience with superiors showed as he stood at attention across the table ¡ª unspeaking unless spoken to.


    ¡°Let me tell you. Other canyons are the same as yours. There is no escaping suffering.¡± The man dropped that train of thought as he saw Botuk¡¯s unreactive face. ¡°Then speak.¡±


    ¡°I am searching for someone,¡± replied Botuk, hoping that level of detail would suffice.


    ¡°What makes you think you¡¯ll find them in the next canyon?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t, but it¡¯s a start.¡±


    The stoic man rubbed his forehead in disbelief. He gazed over at the gilded spear in front of him, contemplating re-wielding it. ¡°You are clearly lying to me, telling half-truths.¡±


    He stood, creaking the chair backwards, then leaned towards Botuk. A hand wiping non-existent dust off the spear. ¡°Very well. The caravan could use more Yirn bait. I heard that live bait is more attractive.¡±


    ¡°Yes, leader! Thank you, leader!¡±


    Exasperated, he sat back down. ¡°I¡¯m not your leader and you¡¯re not my men. You are cargo.¡±


    He continued. ¡°I expect you to report to me when the caravan leaves. If you are late, we will leave you behind. If you are lying about your water vat, there¡¯ll be no need for bait, as I¡¯ll feed you to my Yirn myself.¡±


    Botuk nodded with enthusiasm.


    ¡°Now leave,¡± he said, a hand grabbing a ledger.


    Unsure whether to bow or salute, Botuk just turned around, exiting the same way he entered. A wave of sound hit him, the noise of the crowd roared as before. The stress of his negotiation with the caravan leader had blocked his senses. Only now did he realise that the tent''s interior was acoustically isolated from the outside.


    ¡®Was it the stocky man or special fabric?¡¯ he mused.


    Still, after years of wondering, he was one step closer to finding him.


    An old memory surfaced. A tall man, with greying hair, and skin white as paper. His large hands caressed Botuk¡¯s face, palming over his eyes, the darkness putting him to sleep.


    In the memory, he awakened to find someone sleeping beside him. At that age, the figure resembled a boy, but it was Rita. The tall man was gone, like a figment of his imagination.


    Since he was young, Rita was the only family he knew. A friend turned sister. But she knew nothing of that tall man in his memories ¡ª of the familial connection he felt.


    To find that man, he would have to leave this canyon, to leave Rita. She would understand, but Botuk had to find her. To explain and to say goodbye.


    He scanned the crowd again, hoping her head would pop out between idle collectors, but to no avail. Frustrated, he wished the crowd to be silent so he could shout Rita¡¯s name.


    Like magic, his wish was answered. Though he was no longer brave enough to cut the silence with a shout.


    From the sunward entrance, red robes emerged. Their faces were serious and unblemished, no scars in sight. This was not the failed acolyte he had seen at the melted mirror. These were full members of the faith. Standing tall were two acolytes of the Warden.


    Yet the woman between them dwarfed their presence. A slender figure wearing robes of black and crimson. Her straight hair, as crimson as her robes, framed her pale, ghostly face. With bloodshot eyes that stared into nothingness.


    The overseer had arrived.

 Chapter 3 - Dragging Dissent

    The overseer was a title. Chosen by the elders of the faith to lead the upper caverns. Through her foremen, and on the threat of exile, all obeyed her commands.


    The crimson figure raised a hand, commanding her entourage to stop. A lanky foreman strutted to her, almost tripping as he straightened his robes. For many collectors, the sight of a meek foreman would be a first. Unconcerned by his tension, she whispered her decree, leaving the foreman slack-jawed.


    The overseer was a leader of faith. A representative of the masses in rituals, and a conduit of the Warden. Crimson robes heralded her faith and black marked her rank.


    White robes bowed in reverence, a shallow lean respecting her station, giving her a wide berth as to not impede her duties. Though the bloodshot eyes looked ahead, ignoring their worshipping act.


    Her entourage parted the bowing crowd, their presence spreading with a subtle pressure. The astute worshippers moved away, making a path to the Yirn¡¯s head. For the last two years of the overseer surfacing, she had always dealt with the caravan leader.


    By now Botuk was far from the Yirn, standing on marginally higher ground, looking at the entourage at a distance. As far as he knew, the overseer was not the ultimate leader of the canyon, nor the most mighty. She was one out of many highly ranked acolytes, all powerful in their own right, that answered to a council of elders.


    Other than the basics, the ruling hierarchy was an enigma. Unofficially called downers, most lived segregated away in the lower caverns. Rarely leaving. A solid glass gate separated the upper and lower caverns, allowing members to practise their faith in peace. Remembering the wave of heat from his encounter with the failed acolyte, Botuk agreed that was for the best.


    A shudder went through him, the sight of the charred, melted face haunting his mind. That was the price of power, the price of reaching above your station. For the way to ascend into the faith was simple and available to everyone. Yet during his years as a collector, nobody had tried.


    Murmurs gradually picked up as the overseer entered the enclosed tent, though the two acolytes standing guard outside its entrance cautioned anyone from speaking aloud.


    They spoke of rumours abound surrounding her transactions. Every six months without fail, she left the tent with a wooden crate. The contents of the crate and what she traded for it remained unknown ¡ª a secret for the downers, he presumed.


    The tent flaps parted as if a breeze had appeared from within, carrying with it the overseer and the wooden crate, as expected. An acolyte at her side offered his hands in servitude, taking the object off her person.


    ¡®Time for the speech,¡¯ thought Botuk, still tired from his earlier exertion.


    She walked to the dais, flanked by the two acolytes. Her gracile movements attracted attention, like a planned ritual before her speech. At the boundary, she disrobed, revealing a set of ceremonial armour.


    Crimson trimmed and polished to a mirror finish, the segmented armour gleamed in the light. Black leather laced the strips of bronze, granting its user flexibility and function. A plain yellow medallion imprinted onto the chest, showing the symbol of the Warden.


    She stepped onto the raised dais, bearing her figure for all to see. If before she looked authoritative, now she was divine. The awe-inspiring giant mirrors became just a background to her splendour. Under the direct sunlight, the armour shone with intensity. As if a piece of the Warden had fallen from the heavens and was revealing itself to the unworthy.


    Her ghostly skin turned golden, then her armour. The power of her faith and station was in full manifest. Yet no fire, no burning. She stood under the Warden¡¯s gaze, unphased.


    However, her audience cannot say the same. Just the sight of her brought discomfort. Eyes glanced away, avoiding the glare. The figure now truly embodied the deity ¡ª in its glory and danger.


    ¡°I invoke His blessing onto you, my siblings.¡± Between golden lips, her voice rang out, echoing far into adjacent caverns. ¡°For His mercy gives us life.¡±


    ¡°Every day we find strength in our struggle. We survive. Our flame endures.¡±


    ¡°My people, for your contributions and your unending sacrifices. I thank you! The elders, thank you!¡± She clenched her palms.


    Previous speeches were brief, given as an obligation. Yet, with her pause, she didn¡¯t step off the platform. No sign of her ending her speech. Unconsciously, Botuk¡¯s head moved forward.


    ¡°My blessed people, He has warned us. Sending forth His radiant heat, melting our constructs to awaken us from slumber,¡± she said, her tone sombre.


    ¡°With his message, the elders have discovered a great evil. A creature so twisted, it only knows to kill, devour, and destroy.¡±


    Botuk felt lost. He had never witnessed such an alarm coming from the overseer.


    ¡°Brothers and sisters, it is time for another sacrifice. We will defeat this threat before it can extinguish our flame.¡±


    She continued. ¡°But alone, I am powerless. I need our heroes to answer the call, to stand side by side against evil.¡±


    ¡°I ask for our best people, our best collectors, the strong, the cunning, to come forward and protect your brethren!¡± She ended with a surge of emotion.


    Many cheered with budding patriotism while his head throbbed. To Botuk, the speech was overwhelming, and its consequences sank in. Yet applause replaced cheers, as the architect of his anxiety stepped down from the dais, refastening on her robe.


    From the corner of his eyes, he saw Foreman Modat striding towards him, pushing past the people in his path.


    ¡°Botuk, my good boy! This is your opportunity.¡± He knew where this was going.


    ¡°Foreman, I am humbled, but there are many others¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nonsense, my boy. You are the best! You are my best.¡± The foreman laughed at his own joke. ¡°I told everyone that you were the standard. Go make us proud!¡±


    Belching in laughter, he wrapped a hand around Botuk, bringing him close.


    He whispered. ¡°Listen Botuk, every foreman must recommend one collector and I¡¯m choosing you. The better you perform, the better I appear to the overseer.¡±


    ¡°She is our superior, all of us. If you impress her, you''ll be set for life,¡± said the foreman, explaining to Botuk with patience.


    Botuk scrambled for an excuse. He wanted to explain. About his goals, dreams, and plans. But the man wouldn''t understand his goals, nor sanction his plans. So his fear won out. Silence.


    Still seeing reluctance on his face, the foreman gave his final blow. ¡°If you can¡¯t do it for me, do it for your brothers and sisters.¡± He paused. ¡°Botuk, the danger is real. Their safety is in your hands.¡±


    Memories of Rita. ¡®Where is she?¡¯ He is leaving her behind. To face the danger. Alone.


    ¡°I accept,¡± said Botuk, quiet and solemn. ¡®Let me face the danger.¡¯


    ¡°Good!¡± He gave a pat on Botuk¡¯s back. ¡°Now go, hero.¡± The foreman nudged him towards the overseer, where an assembly of collectors waited for him.


    Botuk stood at attention, facing the overseer with the other volunteers. The piercing eyes of the overseer looked at each of their faces. His paranoia acted up as he imagined her eyes staring at him longer than the others.


    The last person joined and stood next to Botuk, a tall, wide man that dwarfed the others. Ten collectors from ten groups. All at attention, ready.


    ¡°My people,¡± she said, gesturing at the row. ¡°Your heroes!¡±


    The people cheered, whistling into abandon. Botuk felt a hole forming in his chest, growing deeper every second.


    <hr>


    Deeper underground.


    We passed the last group of white-robes minutes ago. The ten of us, led by the overseer and flanked by the acolytes. It was a straight path from the opening to the under caverns, but at this depth, numbers waned.


    Another gap in the wall passed by. If they were closer to the surface, these would be living-spaces lit by mirrors, but down here, there was none. The gap was dark, its fog swirling.


    Distracted, Botuk tripped before correcting himself. The cavern ground was rough and uneven, uncompacted by traffic. Though the light was still strong, beaming from the giant mirror at the opening. He was glad that the wide collector behind was shielding him. Minor victories.


    The glint of cut glass brought his attention to the front, past the overseer. There, a wall of glass met his gaze, light reflecting off its surface.


    Botuk knew of the difference between the upper and lower caverns, and the glass gate that separated them, but still the construct astounded him. Neither a gate nor made of glass. It was a solid barrier, made of an unknown material, transparent but not whole ¡ª like a mound of white sapphire, each the size of a fist, compressed into the shape of a wall.


    ¡®How does enough light even get through that wall?¡¯ thought Botuk, the light hitting the wall scattered off its imperfections, creating a celestial glow.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The acolytes signalled us to stop. The overseer stood at the base, her hands touching the wall, its hulking form dwarfing her. As before, her figure turned golden, then it spread to the wall.


    The radiance flowed like honey, from her epicentre to its corners, dyeing the cavern in golden light. A quake accompanied the glow. The wall shook and cracked, and a vertical seam materialised from thin air, splitting the wall in half.


    She gave a gentle push. Her golden palms commanded the gate open, and the construct obeyed, parting inwards by its unseen hinges.


    We followed the overseer in as the gate closed behind us, its colour muting. The arm-length thick gate closed without noise.


    Botuk realised he was mistaken; the other side was brighter than he thought. Somehow, light passed through the gate, unintruded, but before he could investigate, a cough interrupted his train of thought. Now, with privacy secured, his escorts decided it was time to acknowledge the heroes.


    ¡°This is the hall of our faith,¡± said the overseer, her voice flat and uninterested.


    ¡°Following this path will lead you to the main temple, where us acolytes refine our blessings and contemplate His vision.¡± Botuk looked ahead, seeing nothing but an empty cavern. The temple must be even further.


    ¡°Only acolytes can enter the temple. Until you gain His blessing, I forbid you to go further ¡ª on threat of exile.¡±


    Now the alarm had set in. ¡®Blessings?¡¯ None dared try.


    ¡°I can sense your concern, your fear. With what you know; with what we told you. I understand.¡± She gestured to one acolyte. ¡°In truth, there is a secret to His blessing. Something we keep hidden from the uninitiated.¡±


    The acolyte handed her a crate. The exact crate she bought from the caravan.


    The hall expanded as we entered a clearing, a large underground cavity in their path. A raised platform stood at the centre. Similar to the dais at the opening, but without mirrors, and it was a fraction of the size.


    She stopped once she stepped onto the platform. Botuk and the rest stood below.


    ¡°To be blessed by the Warden is to hold His power within you,¡± she said, crate in her hands.


    ¡°This power is a burden. We use it to fend off evil, but in the wrong hands can bring chaos. Because of this, the Warden requires a test.¡±


    She looked up. ¡°To step into His light and face judgement.¡±


    Her figure turned a pale gold ¡ª weak compared to before ¡ª and a rumbling came from above. A beam of sunlight fell onto the dais. The ceiling, now lit, revealed a tiny opening to the surface.


    On the dais, the light-print was also tiny, covering a quarter of the centre. Large enough for five people standing side by side, but not more. Nobody was in danger. The beam did not even hit the overseer, and with the demonstration, the ceiling closed. Her skin returned a ghostly pale.


    ¡°He blesses the worthy and burns the rest,¡± she said. ¡°But He is merciful to us children. He allows the faithful to test our resolve.¡±


    She unlocked the wooden crate, revealing glowing crystals. It was like a pebble, small and smooth, but unlike a stone, it defied Botuk¡¯s reality. For inside its surface, formed a raging fire, a twisting inferno confined.


    ¡°This is his blessing shaped into form. A sacred seed.¡± Holding one between her fingers.


    ¡°You will hold this gem to your heart and meditate. It will test your will and faith. Should you succeed, you may step into His light.¡± She looked at the ten collectors, all prospective acolytes.


    Her eyes narrowed. ¡°Should you fail, the seed will reject you. It is painful, but you¡¯ll survive.¡±


    The overseer handed the crate to the acolyte that held it before. ¡°There are meditation chambers nearby. I will return once ready. Be quick, for the evil creature has awakened.¡±


    Then she turned and walked deeper into the hall, where they only permitted acolytes to enter.


    Botuk was stunned. A bomb dropped on his lap. He just heard a secret of his world. A secret he wasn¡¯t sure he wanted to know.


    The two acolytes stayed with them, gesturing to a cave in the sidewall ¡ª meditation chambers. They said not a word, and the ten collectors did the same. Their minds were still processing.


    ¡®This is too fast. This decision is life changing.¡¯ thought Botuk. ¡®Can I refuse?¡¯


    Little did he notice, he was now in front of a cave. Bigger than his personal cave up top, but just as dim. The acolyte stared into him, his hand holding out a gem ¡ª a trapped inferno.


    Not wanting him to stare any longer, Botuk took the gem and entered the cave. The gem felt unlike any material he had ever encountered. Slightly warm in his hands, unnatural for such a raging fire. He wondered if it was an illusion, for it bore no weight. The temptation to drop the gem and see if it would shatter crossed his mind, but he resisted.


    Botuk held it to his eyes, lost in the swirling flame, wondering if this power was worth it. He saw himself in red-robes, bending heat and flame at his whims like the overseer, imposing his will over others. His golden form, strolling carelessly under the sky.


    Then he saw his face, charred black, skin melted like the mirror beneath him. The pain was unbearable. Every ounce of his power fought to keep his body from falling apart. A crowd surrounded him, a barrier hiding their voices. They were mocking him, sneering, and cursing.


    A voice. ¡®Release the barrier. Make them feel your wrath.¡¯ His voice.


    The hole in his chest felt deeper.


    The man in his memories cackled, his greying hair in cinders. Flames everywhere. His eyes met Botuk¡¯s, reflecting flames, shutting in recognition.


    Botuk snapped out into a cold sweat, covering the gem in his fist. His heartbeat pounded with abandon, as he clutched his chest with both hands, trying to bring it to heel. His legs buckled, unwilling to stand any longer, leaving him sitting on the cave floor. Seconds passed and his breathing calmed. Slowly, the feeling of dread went away. And now he felt nothing. He felt wrong.


    The gem in his palm looked the same. In the panic, he had held it to his heart. Yet he felt nothing. ¡®No pain means no failure¡¯ ¡ª he pondered ¡ª ¡®but what about success?¡¯.


    Silence. No cries of pain or exclamations of victory. No sound at all came from the outside.


    Botuk stored the gem and peeked out, seeing nothing but an empty, narrow cavern. Perhaps his fellow collectors were still in meditation, their hearts in tune with the Warden¡¯s blessing.


    Perhaps he had succeeded, and the visions were his sign; or perhaps, only he had failed.


    Cranking his head both ways, the acolytes were nowhere to be seen. He walked out of the meditation cave, back into the open cavern. No light came forth from the ceiling, and the dais was dark. The acolytes were missing. The overseer hadn''t returned.


    Alone, he stepped onto the dais, the action amusing him. He would be burnt alive if he did this at the opening, in the thin white robes that he was wearing.


    He placed the gem near his heart again, closing his eyes in meditation. Seconds passed, then minutes. Again, nothing. If the ceiling opened now and sunlight descended, he might attain power, or death.


    The risk weighed on Botuk¡¯s mind. He turned to look at the way forward, where a temple stood, allowing entrance only to its members.


    Then he looked back at the hall from which he came, behind the crystalline gate, and to the opening where the caravan waited. His mind did not choose, but his feet started moving. First a saunter, then a stride, then eventually, he ran.


    Botuk made his choice. This was not his path. He did not want this power. All he wanted was to find that person. Evil creatures be damned.


    ¡®I¡¯ll warn Rita, she can come with me,¡¯ thought Botuk, clenching the gem. The caravan leader wanted sacred gems. A vat of water for his travel and this gem of fire for hers.


    He dashed along the path, maintaining his balance as he ran. Although the overseer called this a hall, it was just like any cavern, rocky and uneven.


    In his haste, Botuk overlooked a crucial obstacle ¡ª the gate. Arm-length thick and refracting light from the other side. It was closed and there was no seam in sight.


    Botuk stored the gem in a sash as he palmed the wall, searching frantically for a joint. The wall was rugged, unsurprising from a construct made of crystal clear rocks. His palms uncovered countless bumps and crevices, but there was no order in its placement. No hidden trigger or method to pry the gate open. He couldn''t even gain a solid grip.


    Near a corner, his nails bled as he scraped and dug away at some loose dirt, hoping to go under. Yet the deeper he dug, the more crystal he revealed. Now he panicked, his breath fast and shallow. The shawl around his head turned heavy, soaking his copious sweat.


    The overseer must have returned by now, and his digging was not quiet. Botuk was running out of time.


    A final gambit. He punched and clawed at the wall, grunting at every strike, feeling his knuckles turned to mush. Nothing happened. The crystal gate glittered with indifference. The wall ¡ª immovable.


    Faint voices appeared behind him. ¡®The overseer. The acolytes.¡¯


    Botuk struck harder and harder, ignoring the salty taste of sweat that dripped into his mouth. He had to escape. His goals¡­dreams¡­her, were waiting just behind this wall.


    The voice got louder, right at his back. A presence reached out their hand to catch him. To drag him back on the dais. He was unwilling, but the hand clutched his shoulder, squeezing tightly.


    His reflex kicked in and the swing intended for the wall realigned towards the back. A knock out could give him more time.


    Smack. She caught his fist, recoiling her body to absorb the blow. A pair of piercing brown eyes met Botuk¡¯s. ¡°Rita? How¡ª¡±


    His friend shushed him, reaching over her other hand to cover his mouth. Adrenaline must have dampened his confusion since he listened.


    Voices. The faint voices were still there and getting louder.


    She clasped his hand and tugged him away from the prominent gate, bringing both of them to a dark crevice on the cavern wall. Botuk passed multiple such crevices on his way to the lower caverns, and more after. They were all unlit, dangerous.


    Yet Rita was dragging him into it, the darkness already engulfing half her body. Only stopping when Botuk anchored his feet to the ground. He did not refuse power just to die in darkness.


    She looked into his eyes and whispered. ¡°Trust me.¡±


    More voices emerged. Multiple and closer.


    No more choices, no more time. He nodded, relenting.


    ¡°Hold your breath, and whatever you do, don''t let go,¡± she said, pulling both of them into darkness.


    The voices disappeared. The sound of their steps, the rustling of clothes, his heart beat, all gone ¡ª no, muffled ¡ª like hearing through ears stuffed with cotton. Disorienting couldn''t explain his experience. Botuk saw nothing, as though blindfolded by thick fur. Up, down, left, right all switched, then shifted back. His sense of direction became twisted.


    Only the hand clasping Rita¡¯s communicated the way forward. Though even that was under threat. The back of his hand began itching, scratching, peeling his fingers off one by one. His body felt a pull, not from a limb, but from everything, drawing him backwards. A muffled voice whispered directly in his brain, telling him to let go.


    ¡®What is this?¡¯


    As if realising his notice, the voice enveloped him, like ethereal arms placing him into an embrace. The pull magnified. Sharp claws poked and prodded his clasping hand, drawing blood, the liquid causing his hand to slip.


    Alarmed, Botuk clamped harder, not caring if he caused Rita pain. He willed his other hand, dangling behind, to reach for her arm. Muffled screeching followed. The pulling intensified as it yanked his other arm back. By now, Botuk felt his legs lifting off the ground, dragging behind. Yet he still advanced, moving forward through Rita¡¯s locomotion.


    The claws now sunk into his hand, bringing more pain and more blood. Another slip. His hands were now clammy, with either sweat or blood.


    ¡°Let go,¡± said Rita, her other hand clawing at his, trying to release her limb from his grasp. ¡°It hurts!¡±


    Light came back, his ears no longer muffled. Botuk jolted his hand to his face, releasing Rita. No blood, no wounds, and no peril. He glanced back at the darkness, flinching away from its proximity. The fog masked his vision, but he could have sworn he saw a shadow.


    ¡°Botuk.¡± He kept staring, searching for movement. ¡°Botuk, focus on my voice!¡±


    Rita¡¯s face showed concern. ¡°Rita, what¡ªwhat was that?¡± His voice was shaking.


    Her eyes drooped low, rubbing her sore hand far too quickly for relief.


    ¡°It was the way out, our only way.¡±


    ¡°Not that. You know what I meant,¡± he said. ¡°The darkness, the pulling, my hand¡ªsomething clawed at my hand!¡±


    ¡°That was¡ªis a gift. My gift. To you.¡± She stopped fidgeting. ¡°We don¡¯t have time, Botuk. They will keep chasing you.¡±


    He looked back at the fog, almost hearing the voices approaching. The overseer will search for him, if not to punish him for his desertion, it will be for what he took. Botuk reached into his pocket, showing the gem to Rita.


    ¡°Woah,¡± she exclaimed, her gaze drawn to the miniature inferno.


    ¡°Rita, I¡¯m leaving the canyon. There¡¯s a ride waiting for me at the opening,¡± said Botuk.


    ¡°Perfect. She is dangerous, Botuk. You need to leave. As far away as possible.¡±


    ¡°We need to leave, Rita. Both of us.¡± He replied. ¡°I can give you this gem. The caravan leader will take it as payment, and we¡¯ll both escape.¡±


    Her mouth gaped, eyes wide in shock. ¡°I¡ªI can''t. I have to stay.¡±


    ¡°But¡ª¡±


    ¡°Go Botuk. My goals are right here.¡± She refused. ¡°Leave before they find you.¡±


    His dome throbbed. Can he really leave her here? With the overseer, with the evil creature. He wanted her safe.


    An idea popped into his head. ¡°Then keep this,¡± he said, handing her the sacred gem. ¡°Whenever it gets bad, lie low until the next caravan. Then exchange it for a ride.¡±


    She nodded. Her gaze was on the gem, mesmerised by the swirling flame.


    ¡°Rita, this is goodbye,¡± said Botuk. ¡°I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll return, so this may be the last time we meet.¡±


    Her gaze left the gem, pocketing it. Seeing his sorrowful face, she went in for a hug, her supple arms tightly embracing him.


    ¡°Goodbye Botuk, but not forever,¡± she said, taking on her characteristic smirk. She turned away, walking deeper into the cavern, her back lit by a mirror¡¯s light.


    Cavern? Mirror? Only now he¡¯d noticed.


    Botuk looked around, realising his location. Narrow passages with desiccated walls. Whatever Rita did, her gift, it led them to a familiar cavern. Even the dark crevice he came from looked familiar. It was the crack where Rita hid his toys long ago. He treaded forward, recognising the layout.


    ¡®Another left and I would be right back¡ªYes!¡¯ His personal cave. Rita led him to where he needed to be.


    Botuk entered with haste, swiping away the sleeping mat and removing the cracked stone piece by piece. In the dim light, Botuk removed the clay vat from its hole. The weight of over 200 bowls of water strained his back.


    He wrapped the container with a layer of stained fabric, taken from his cave belongings, to secure the lid shut, then wobbled the water vat to his cave¡¯s entrance.


    The sound of footsteps rushing came from the throughway. Just busy collectors or a search party, Botuk didn''t know.


    Either way, he needed to hide. Botuk stuffed his feet-wrappings with dirt and pebbles, changing his gait. The shawl, he wrapped twice around his head, using a different wrapping technique to mask his identity.


    At the moment, it was a matter of getting to the opening ¡ª the caravan. Another group of footsteps rushed by. Now he was worried.


    ¡®Steady,¡¯ he thought, as he hauled the vat by his arms. Less conspicuous than back-loading, he thinks.


    The weight on each step slowed him down. Though he had carried hot sand, he can surely carry this.


    More footsteps. Reality or paranoia.


    He entered the main throughway, face to face with the mirror. He looked around. Nothing. No ambush.


    Now is the chance. He strutted confidently. No red robes in sight.


    The vat felt heavy in Botuk''s arms, but he could handle it, knowing that in just a few more minutes, he would be free.

 Chapter 4 - Baneful Blessing

    Botuk feared he was on the verge of being caught. Two men were closing the distance, hurrying behind him. There were no crevices to hide, no corners to lose them. Just a linear, dusty cavern. Instinctively, he tried to scrunch his body, making it smaller. Yet, the urgent voices exchanged between his pursuers dissuaded him of its effectiveness.


    ¡®Should I run now?¡¯ He quickened his steps, abandoning his stealth. Here in these upper caverns, a white-robed collector hauling a heavy vat was uncommon but not unheard of, but one that was running will still attract attention.


    It seemed the two behind him agreed as they hastened their strides. Botuk tried to match their speed, but he could only go so fast carrying a vat filled with water. He tensed up, waiting for his capture, for the sudden shock as they seized his arms, dragging him back to face the overseer.


    Yet nothing happened. The two men hurried past him. Their white-robed backs revealed them as just collectors, either busy or running late.


    Botuk relaxed his shoulders, letting out a breath he hadn''t realised he''d been holding. He was seeing ghosts where none were. Another glance over his shoulder calmed him down, but the thought that his constantly looking back figure might appear suspicious reignited his anxiety. This can¡¯t go on. His heart couldn''t take jumping out of his chest every few minutes.


    ¡®Reach the opening and this will all be over,¡¯ rationalised Botuk.


    The cavern he was in was not crowded, typical for a path connecting residential caves to the main throughway. Only an occasional collector and narrow-grade mirror passed him by. This cavern left him exposed. Botuk needed to enter the main path, where the sea of people would camouflage him.


    He came across another group of collectors standing at the side in chatter, talking and laughing as friends do. His anxiety spiked as their laughter stopped as he came into sight. Their necks swung to face him, examining his every move. These were collectors; they wouldn''t think anything¡¯s awry, Botuk self-comforted.


    But their eyes never left him, not when he got closer, nor when he passed them. They looked on, judging.


    ¡°Hey man, need some help?¡± said the stocky man in the middle of the group, the friendly voice juxtaposing his paranoia.


    His shock must have been obvious. ¡°You okay, man?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m good, I¡¯m good,¡± replied Botuk, speaking with a different cadence to hide his identity.


    Though his winded speech must not have been convincing. ¡°Hey man, you should put that down and take a break. There¡¯s a holdup at the opening entrance. No one¡¯s going anywhere, anytime soon.¡± The stocky man thumbed towards the opening.


    ¡°I¡¯m kind of in a hurry. But the holdup, do you know why?¡± Botuk slowed down but didn''t stop.


    ¡°No idea man, maybe it¡¯s some big shot working there, like earlier with the melted mirrors,¡± he said, waving him off when Botuk kept walking at pace. ¡°Don¡¯t hurt yourself.¡±


    Botuk trudged along even quicker. A holdup was not what he wanted to hear, let alone its suspected reason. There were other paths to the opening, leading to either of the four entrances in each cardinal direction. If he needed to, Botuk could take a side path and exit at a different entrance. Though that would mean staying longer inside with his pursuers on his tail.


    ¡®I can¡¯t stay here longer than I need to.¡¯ Botuk was not diverting course just because of rumours. He needed to see the holdup before deciding.


    The glare off the wide bronze mirror didn¡¯t phase him this time. Not only did he wear a double veil, but he also focused on blending in with the crowd. Ironically, the more people there were, the more invisible he felt. The natural babble also concealed his heavy breath.


    But the closer he got to the opening, the deeper his stomach sank. The sounds of conversations got louder, the air denser with breath, and white-robed shoulders jostled for space, bumping into another. The stocky man did not exaggerate. The traffic was real and it will delay his escape.


    Bump. ¡°Oh, sorry.¡± A young girl apologised for colliding. ¡°I didn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    Wasting no time, Botuk turned back, leaving the girl speechless. He saw no red in the crowd, but if it was an acolyte holding up the entrance, he was not taking that chance. Another entrance had to do. So far, Botuk had seen three agents of the overseer, one failed acolyte and two actual ones. It was unlikely that the overseer herself would stoop to chase him, so that means at least one entrance was unguarded.


    Given the distance from the crystal gate to the inner temple, the likelihood of more acolytes appearing to deal with him was slim. They could have recruited foremen, but Botuk left the lower caverns only recently and, like any bureaucracy of this age, orders disseminated by piecemeal.


    He slipped into a side cavern, one that led to the sunwards entrance. The founders of this canyon centuries ago carved the entrances into the rock. Four powerful acolytes, if the stories were to be believed, chose a cardinal direction to make as their home. Sunwards and windwards were opposite directions. Their founders were reluctant to live near each other. Then left-flare, and right-flare. Named for where sunlight would hit your body when facing that direction.


    Originally, these entrances led to their own cavern systems, but with more people looking for refuge, and the canyon-society more complex, they became fused. Botuk lived in the right-flare, usually taking its entrance. With his now circuitous path, he would reach the sunwards entrance, then left-flare, then finally windwards.


    Light from a bronze mirror illuminated the path, toasting his back. The side caverns were not uniform, personal caves lined some while others hosted goods for storage. The one Botuk took was a pure pathway ¡ª no caves or crevices lined the sides. Its only purpose was to facilitate human traffic. Yet, apart from the few at the beginning, he was alone. Unusual for such a busy path ¡ª and concerning.


    Botuk stopped. He had only journeyed down the cavern for a few minutes. It was faster to turn back. He spun, casting a fleeting glance over his shoulder. His body turned, lagging from the weight of his load. But when his eyes fell on what lurked behind him, a sudden gasp of air rushed into his lungs. His saliva and breath caught in his throat, causing him to wheeze, retching his throat with vomit.


    Red. Robes.


    It took all his will to stop a scream from escaping ¡ª or perhaps he should scream at the top of his lungs, calling for help. The acolyte stood still and took no action towards him. A full head of dark hair, unlike Botuk¡¯s, glistened in the silhouette. His pale face was in shadow, hiding his expressions. This was the acolyte that had escorted him, a member of the overseer¡¯s entourage. To the people of the canyon, they were the law.


    ¡®Better not scream,¡¯ thought Botuk, hugging the vat tighter, ignoring the red figure. ¡®No use running.¡¯ He walked by, passing the acolyte on the left.


    Botuk felt trapped. He was confident with his speed, but outrunning anyone while carrying the water vat was impossible. Dropping the vat would only delay his capture. Without his payment, the caravan would never allow boarding. Cornered, he was running out of options. The only way out was to fight, and the only way to win was by surprise.


    The opportune moment had come. They were almost touching shoulders. Botuk hoped his leisurely gait would catch the man off guard, and he succeeded.


    The muscles of his left arm flexed under the weight, propping up the vat by its lonesome. He passed him on the left for a reason, to free his dominant right hand for a full-forced swing.


    Screaming, Botuk put all his efforts into the swing, aiming for the acolyte¡¯s jaw. A knock out would buy him enough time to escape. The acolyte didn''t move, as if Botuk¡¯s sudden punch overwhelmed his reflexes. ¡®Perfect.¡¯ He could already imagine the outcome, a direct blow to the chin rattling his brain.


    Heat. Five finger lengths from the acolyte¡¯s face, Botuk¡¯s knuckles crackled, turning red with inflammation. The surface skin turned black then white, peeling off, revealing the underlayers. Like a dagger piercing his brain, the pain stabbed him, swirling its handle, making mush out of his insides.


    Wind. A force suspended his fist in the air. Then it propelled his burned hand to the ceiling, threatening to take Botuk with it. Before it could, the wind direction changed downwards, dropping him to his knees. The wind kept alternating while maintaining its grip, flailing his arm to its whims. The rapid motion strained his shoulder sockets, weakening the ligaments. If this continued, a dislocated shoulder would be the least of his worries.


    The acolyte sported a grin, as though mocking Botuk for his pathetic attempt. His smile distorted as he loosened his jaw, shifting it from side to side, preparing his facial muscles. Then it opened, face muscles extended, drawing his jaw as wide as he could. From its depths a glow emerged, first like embers, then growing into molten iron. Light and smoke poured from his mouth, growing brighter and more intense with every passing second.


    Botuk stopped oscillating. The force rattling him in the air went away, leaving his head suspended directly in the path of the billowing smoke. The glow intensified. Its harshness flashing through the smoke. His eyes flickered shut, unable to bear the light and heat.


    His body twisted and turned in the air, powerless against the acolyte¡¯s wind.


    The gaping mouth narrowed into a blow. Clouds of smoke invaded Botuk¡¯s nostrils, burning his eyes even through his closed eyelids. Worse was the heat. Hot wind that smelled like burnt flesh wafted over his face, turning it flushed, then ashen. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Every bit of flesh baked, leaving Botuk lightheaded. Black spots appeared in his vision as blood drained from his head. He struggled to stay awake, biting his tongue and squeezing the vat to maintain focus.


    Yet his consciousness waned, head nodded and jerked, only delaying slumber. A numbness spread, dulling his sense of his own body. His head grew heavier until the last thread of awareness slipped away, muscles relaxed, and everything went black.


    With his mind gone, the muscles followed. The arm went limp, dooming the vat to gravity. This was not a beautifully crafted glass vat made by expert blowers. It was handmade by Botuk, shaping clay and firing it into ceramic using crude methods. A fall would shatter it.


    Crash.


    Tinkling reverberated off the cavern walls. Its contents spilled to be soaked by the parched earth. 200 bowls of water left uselessly irrigating a hallway.


    <hr>


    Pain brought Botuk out of his nightmare. Jagged rocks scraped his knees, drawing blood and staining his torn robes. Another jab, now at his open wound, caused his eyelids to flutter open. Two hands were clenching at his arms, their rough, calloused palms dug into his skin, bruising the underside purple. His white robes that once wrapped around him ground to shreds by the coarse floor and exposing the raw skin, and in time, will scab his knees and thighs, adding more scars to his collection. Botuk was being dragged.


    Noise and babble exited his mouth, the would-be-coherent words now slurred and unintelligible, strung haphazardly by his groggy mind. His pupils constricted, reducing the glare that passed through the layer of mist and gunk over the iris. The piercing light gave his dazed head a migraine. Its sting jolted him awake.


    For the first time since he passed out, Botuk shut his drooling jaw, forcing him to breathe through his nostrils. The smell was acrid. The heavy miasma stuck to his nose, bombarding him with a nauseating yet sweet metallic scent mix. An urge to vomit came as fast as it left, stinging his throat with acid, but unable to leave the orifice because of his dehydration.


    However, he realised that someone had unveiled him as the heat evaporated the mists in his eyes, its light keeping his attention with its familiarity. For the source was an aperture in the ceiling, and the glare from the dais below. Botuk was back in the lower caverns, dragged back by the acolyte.


    Sensing an upcoming struggle, the acolytes tightened their grip, a hand on each of Botuk¡¯s arms. They weren¡¯t alone in the chamber. A figure rested on the centre of the dais, right under the aperture. Right under the Warden¡¯s light.


    Smoke emanated from it, as jet black as the figure itself. With his blurry eyes, the form looked like a boulder of solid coal. The scattered embers that were on and around it reinforced the illusion. Yet with Botuk¡¯s now awakened mind, clarity emerged. This was not an object, it was a person ¡ª and he recognised the silhouette.


    Earlier there was a collector, tall and wide, like a giant. They were both plucked from their groups to serve as protectors. Ten heroes from ten groups. The others were forgettable, but this one was so towering that he shaded Botuk from the mirror''s light. So Botuk remembered.


    The coal-like figure, with its arms and legs curled tightly, coiled into a ball, was unmistakably him. His flesh charred black, carbonised by direct sunlight, turning to embers piece by piece. The horrid smell originated from his curled form, giving out the pungent scent of burnt flesh. Botuk wanted to call out, but didn''t know his name. Wanted to scream, but only a horse moan set free. So he could only stare.


    For just a second, he saw it. Movement. Slight, almost imperceptible movement. An enlargement of his form, like inflating ¡ª breath. The man was alive, if not just barely.


    Light from the ceiling abated as the aperture closed. A golden form, previously hidden behind the light, turned a pale yellow, then settled into ghostly skin. The overseer was here the whole time, and with his overwhelmed senses, he failed to notice. The room went dim, only lit by the ambient glow filtering through the crystal gate.


    Surprisingly, the overseer¡¯s gaze was not on Botuk, but on the burnt man beneath her. Then she gazed at the acolyte to his left, removing his hold on Botuk. His left arm slammed down to the ground with a thump, unfeeling because of numbness. With one gone, the pressure on the other acolyte doubled, including the pressure on his remaining shoulder joint.


    That acolyte approached the burnt collector and grabbed the charred limbs. At contact, steam hissed out of his palms, though the red-robed man remained unfazed. Even when shrunk by the heat, the body was massive. Yet the acolyte dragged him off the dais without effort, piling him with other black figures at the side wall. Some lay down flat, others sat upright or stood leaning against the wall. Nine forms, Botuk counted. And him the tenth.


    A presence fell over him, freezing him to the floor. The overseer was looking at him, staring right into his eyes. Her eyes were still distant but with a glint of curiosity.


    ¡°Little Thief,¡± she said. ¡°I should have known.¡± Her tone hinted at a smile, yet none showed.


    His jaw refused to open, the presence froze his entire musculature.


    ¡°Or would you prefer Little Coward, who ran away from danger?¡± Mirth in her eyes, yet still no grin.


    The presence left. ¡°I¡¯m no coward, but this thing¡ªthis power is not for me,¡± he said, raspy. ¡°Let me leave. I won¡¯t tell anyone. I''ll disappear.¡±


    She cackled like a witch. Her voice, rich and voluminous.


    ¡°So different! Yet so similar.¡± Her face haunting. ¡°Then Little Thief it is. Tell me, thief, where is my gem?¡±


    He couldn''t say. Not if it would implicate Rita. He thought of saying that he hid the gem, but that would cause a search, eventually leading to Rita. ¡®He had spent it¡¯, but what native of this canyon would accept a flaming pebble? They knew he didn''t make it to the caravan. A concrete excuse didn''t pop into mind. So he said something he would regret.


    ¡°I used it. I consumed the sacred gem.¡±


    She tensed up, eyes wide and mouth opened. Then snapped shut, baring her teeth. Finally, her expression turned neutral except for a small smirk at the corner of her lips.


    ¡°Very well, hero, you must have His blessing. Let¡¯s put it to the test.¡±


    The presence returned, freezing him, and with it, his panic.


    ¡°Prepare him for ascension!¡± Both acolytes moved, yanking him to the centre of the dais.


    His limbs refused his commands as the acolytes contorted him into cross-leggedness. The only muscle moving was his chest, inflating and deflating as he hyperventilated.


    ¡°Embrace His gaze, thief, and you will be blessed.¡± The acolytes retreated, leaving the dais. Only the overseer stood before his sitting form, head held high, and eyes staring below at him, judging.


    Her skin glowed from pale white to pastel yellow to a brilliant gold. The colour spread from her feet onto the dais as she opened her mouth, projecting her voice as if reciting a holy chant.


    ¡°O mighty Warden, giver of life,¡± she started.


    The gold spread to under his legs, illuminating the whole dais. A rumbling shook the chamber, arising from the ceiling until every stone and dust trembled. The aperture opened, revealing a gap, and from it His light fell.


    ¡°Wake us from our slumber.¡±


    Screams. His bald head was first hit. Its flesh bubbled, turning red, then white before smouldering to black. The beam bored into his head.


    ¡°O true king! Exalted is He. And those with His blessings.¡±


    The aperture widened to envelop Botuk¡¯s shoulders. Flames erupted from his robes, expanding and enveloping all. The presence stalled, freeing his hands, but nothing else. His arms flailed and wiped the surface of his skin, patting down the flames in distraught, but to no avail.


    ¡°For without You, we are without purpose.¡± She paused. ¡°For without You, we walk this world in chains.¡±


    The robes evaporated into ash, blown away by the fire¡¯s wind. Skin exposed, steaming moisture rushed out and the dry residue ignited.


    ¡°O Great Lord, ward us from the evils that seek to destroy us,¡±


    Botuk wanted to scream louder, but what came was only a whimper. Flames entered his open mouth, scorching its way inside.


    ¡°And give us the tools to fight for your cause.¡± She resumed.


    His arms stopped flailing, recognising the futility. Instead, they stretched forward onto the dais, digging his fingers into the hard stone, pulling for dear life. Again, the presence faltered, releasing his torso as it lurched forward under his crawl. The coarse stone chipped and ground at his nails and fingertips, but the light instantly cauterised any wounds.


    ¡°For the worthy and faithful are your instruments, righteous in our deeds.¡±


    She looked at him and continued chanting, undeterred by his actions. By now, the roaring flames reflected in her eyes had died down into embers. The sight of him writhing and squirming gave her no remorse. Just as it didn¡¯t when the others were in pain.


    ¡°O Great Destroyer! Test all those who seek your blessing, for power corrupts the soul.¡±


    Botuk looked like a statue, frozen, carved from a slab of coal. His flesh smoked and ashed, hidden under layers of burnt skin. Every breath brought agony.


    ¡°And smite all those whose heart is wicked, and let justice roam the world.¡± Her lips sealed together, and the chant came to a close.


    The Warden¡¯s light evaporated as fast as it came. Then, a kind of mechanism rumbled and ticked, closing the opening on the ceiling. The overseer¡¯s golden form lessened its glow until it revealed pale flesh. Nothing moved except Botuk¡¯s chest, flaking off bits of burnt skin with every inflation.


    He was alive. Burnt, scarred, and maimed. But still drawing breath.


    Unlike before, the overseer did not command her acolyte to remove him off the dais. Instead, she stuffed her hand into the sash of her crimson-black robes, taking out a sacred gem. It shimmered in her palm. Even from afar, the blazing swirls were mesmerising.


    She stepped towards Botuk, touching the gem to his skin. Its inferno swirled perceptibly slower, and the radiance diminished, as if consumed.


    Botuk felt nothing but agony, barely keeping consciousness by his will, yet when the gem made contact, the pain dissipated, replaced by the warmth of a hearth. The feeling in his extremities came back. So does his burnt skin. He was free to take deep breaths without his flesh rebelling.


    The overseer didn¡¯t stay to watch him. She went to the other burnt collectors, tapping the gem to the carbonised skin of each. Like Botuk, their flesh visibly healed, the charred bits of flesh peeled off, revealing bare muscles and red, tender flesh underneath. Fused skin and tissue covered their bodies, dripping blood as from a fresh lesion.


    The gem did not grant a total restoration. To them or to Botuk. Rather, its powers allowed a partial recovery, not enough to subside the pain, nor erase the torture from their minds, but it permitted them to function ¡ª walking and breathing as human beings.


    By the time the overseer was done with the last member, the gem was but a spark. A trapped inferno extinguished into a speck of light. The collectors began awakening, their limbs shaking as they clumsily stood. The tall, wide man Botuk saw earlier also stood, his posture unsteady. Though Botuk¡¯s attention was on the figure beside him.


    The figure just kept laying on the ground, either unwilling or unable to move. He paused on his chest. It was still. That collector was dead.


    His eyes scanned the others, and there were three more. Out of ten heroes, four were dead. His mind chuckled. The pain must have jaded him, for Botuk didn¡¯t have the energy to mourn. For once, his mind didn''t throb, because within a fire raged.


    His eyes met the overseer¡¯s. ¡®Was she staring at him this whole time?¡¯


    It didn''t matter, as he found strength in his legs. Steadying his stance, he charged at her.


    Again, his momentum halted at a barrier. Like a hurricane of hot wind twisting and raging, preventing him from getting near. Yet, unlike before, his strength pushed him through, inching himself through the barrier. The heat of the gale unfazed him, washing over his fused skin like a warm breeze. An unearthly power filled his veins, bringing him closer to the overseer, to the tyrant.


    Closer. His fist extended, aiming for her face. Closer. She side-stepped away ¡ª fast ¡ª and caught Botuk¡¯s fist in her golden hand.


    No force applied to her hand, not even a recoil. In his stupor, Botuk forgot he was in her hot wind barrier, struggling against the current at a crawl. To her, his punch was as good as stationary. Easily dismissed with just a golden hand. The rest of her skin was still pale.


    A push from her sent Botuk flying to a wall. The impact would have winded him, yet now it barely registered.


    ¡°Well, Little Thief, perhaps you had His blessing after all,¡± she said to Botuk.


    Her eyes hovered over the other collectors.


    ¡°Look within yourselves. Feel His blessing. Feel your power.¡± She addressed all six of them.


    ¡°Your fallen comrades had failed His test. They lacked faith and will.¡± She paused. ¡°But He saw you worthy of power. Of greatness.¡±


    Botuk stood, affecting a menacing posture as he stalked towards her. The pain returned as his adrenaline subsided. A maddening anguish, distracting but still functional.


    She glanced, then ignored him. ¡°You are now members of the faith. All pleasures and responsibilities of the station are yours to bear. But you are not complete. His blessing has yet to seep into your soul ¡ª your living flame.¡±


    ¡°For now, you are but failed acolytes. Merely touching power, suffering from His blessing.¡± She took out another sacred gem, whirling and whole, holding it above for all to see.


    ¡°This is your salvation!¡± She paused dramatically. ¡°One healed your wounds, bringing life to your dying bodies. Another will fully heal you.¡±


    Botuk believed her. There was something inside him that drew him to the gem. The flames were more vivid in his eyes.


    ¡°Use the agony as your drive. For the evil creature threatening our home is real, and the canyon needs their heroes.¡±


    She smirked. ¡°And for your efforts, I will reward each of you a sacred gem, to complete your ascension as acolytes of the Warden.¡±


    He thought of charging again. To grab that gem from her lithe, dead hands. He was sure the other thought the same. Yet no one moved. She threw Botuk like a used rag, nobody doubted her strength.


    Even Botuk had stopped his stalk, debilitated by the strain and tearing of his flesh, wincing at every movement. He recalled the relief and healing when the gem touched his skin. The twisting spirals of the gem between her fingers enticed him.


    He needed it, and if the overseer won''t fall, then the creature will.