"As flies on a hot dung."

  Fortune sat at the base of a tree, his sweaty hand delving into a ragged leather pouch. His fingers sank into the greasy, lumpy mass as he scooped a handful into his mouth. The fur remaining on the skin tickled and pricked his tongue. He chewed it just enough to swallow, then let it slide down his throat. The disgusting sludge splashed into his churning stomach, which contained nothing but scraps of leather, fur, and that unnamable goo, holding it all together, that even the Light would struggle to define.

  "Lice."

  A slave plodded along the road with his cart, chewing on something vile and occasionally spitting it onto the path. He was likely headed to the meatballs' pen. Even from there, the sound of the overfed pigs grunting and squealing in their pen could be clearly heard. Fortune thought, as he scooped a spoonful of slop into his mouth. The stable boys whooped, slapping the whinnying horses' backs as they galloped across the red blade-grass field, laughing with mouths wide open. As if trying to digest the sight along with it, he swallowed hard, but the mass wouldn't go down and got stuck in his throat. Despite his efforts, gulping and gasping, no air could pass from his mouth to his lungs. He pounded on his chest, his mouth gaping and eyes bulging as he silently choked like a mule. He collapsed, inhaling the stench of the red mud, gripping his own throat, beating his chest until he vomited the monstrosity. Fortune spat the hairy leather lump onto the ground. He couldn't bear to look at the estate any longer.

  His black beard, speckled with red mud and vomit, looked like a decaying octopus slapped onto his face. He scraped off the filth, slipped into a leather protective suit, fastened the hooks, and pulled his gloves back on. Lastly, he put on a helmet made of metal and leather, shaped like an egg. The entire outfit was crafted from multiple layers of black meatball leather, weighing at least twenty kilograms. It left not a single part of him uncovered, making him look as if he were wearing the flayed skin of a giant. Only his mouth and eyes had openings, but even those were covered with iron grilles. Through these grates, he saw the twilight world. He crawled under the leather curtain of the breeding tent, holding the harvesting rod, a long wooden stick with a padded club at the end. The tent itself was made of cobweb-like, translucent sheets, each covering fifty to a hundred trees, where the killer mosquitoes eked out their miserable lives. Beneath a broken branch with black, angular leaves lay the corpse of a mouse. Its belly moved. This was a sign of life, but not the rodent's. A new life was hatching inside, the larvae consuming the body from within, growing inside it.

  Most mosquitoes slept motionless on the trunks or a branch, but a few early risers were already buzzing in the air, searching for food, and they found it in Fortune. Their four-inch-long stingers pierced straight into Fortune’s abdomen, their hooked legs clinging on. If that had really been his stomach, his intestines would be perforated, and he could only have torn the little darlings off along with his guts. Instead, he just let them play with his protective suit. He sighed, then started knocking apples off the trees, tossing them into the sack one after another. He lifted a few to his eyes, looking for the marks of the killer mosquitoes' stings.

  The sun had already slipped to the other side of the estate, where it began to sink, reddening, towards the wall. After filling the sixth sack, he yanked off the mask. He panted, water running down his face. For a while, he just watched the silhouettes of mosquitoes flying behind the tent canvas. They kept crashing into the veil.

  "No, my dear little cursed ones. You're not getting out yet." He touched the rusty metal collar around his neck. "Neither am I."

  ***

  A loop, a pull, then a half-circle. He tightened the rope at the mouths of the sacks and loaded them one by one onto the cart. His draft animal, Broom, swung its tail in the air. It was like a mace with a palm-sized club at the end. During the eight years he had been stuck there, it had nearly smashed his head in with it on several occasions.

  "You cursed beast," Fortune slapped its face, then jumped onto the driver's seat.

  In the reddish rays of the sunset, the watchtower stood like a high-raised sword. It stretched up to the sky in the middle of the estate and no matter where he was, the tower always obscured a corner of the sky. Fortune turned away his gaze. Among the trees, the other slaves still worked. Some of them didn't even take off their leather clothes, hurrying back to the breeding tent for more apples:

  "Twelve," one said.

  "Thirteen," another shouted back, sweating as he tossed another full sack onto the cart. Fortune's ears bled from the sound.

  He yanked the reins. Wherever he looked, he saw the damned. They were among the trees, they rode across the fields, they stood at doorways and gates, they slept around him at night, or fornicated, and even now one was coming toward him. He stopped his cart across the road, splashing into the mud with his bare feet and scurried up to Fortune. The slave grinned, slapping Broom's back while spouting nonsense at Fortune. He even placed his hand on Fortune's shoulder. Fortune just looked at the dirty hand but didn't move, just tightened his grip on the reins. His mind already pondered that he had more twine and there were still empty sacks. He sized up the unwashed, scrawny body and concluded that it would fit well in one of the sacks, and the twine would suit well around the neck, fitting under the collar. A loop, a pull, then a half-circle. He continued talking in front of him, almost shouting, his stinking, warm breath on him. Fortune raised his hand, moved away from him, but he just kept shouting. Another slave joined him from behind, and arm in arm, they laughed and shared their nonsense. At that point, he decided to cut through the blade-grass field when suddenly they fell silent, climbed back onto their cart, and left him alone. Two guards galloped past him.

  He could continue towards his altar, which was merely a pile of stones where he baked the apples, but it was his alone and as far from all the worthless ones as possible. He had carried the stones and rocks there himself, scraping out the mud with his nails to glue them together. But more guards came into view as the road curved. Nothing unusual, they checked on the slaves' work, having nothing better to do. But this time both were shouting. He stopped Broom, expecting them to simply gallop past. There were none around now, but there could have been another reason. He kept thinking this until he was dragged off the cart. One of them grabbed him under the chin and turned his head to face the road he had come from. Apples lay scattered behind the cart. He remembered the motion of tightening the twine on them, like a neck. Tight, so no air could escape.

  He had seen slaves executed right there, where they dropped a dish. They were simply stabbed through with a sword.

  They stood behind him. The sound of a sword hissing out of its sheath could come at any moment. But he heard something else. He clenched his toes and gripped the soft earth with his fingers. They yanked the sackcloth off him, and one of the guards drew in a breath to strike. Then the first lash cracked across his back. The other stood in front of him, grinning and running his tongue back and forth at the edge of his mouth. His hand tirelessly wandered over his own chest, tugging at the straps of his vest, fiddling with the links of his chainmail, taking off his helmet, then putting it back on. Every lash of the whip felt like a hot knife had run across him. But what really infuriated him was the guard's grin before him. And yet, he just kept looking at it. Fortune couldn't take his eyes off him, even when the whip's tongue cut across his back. Tearful, scraping the ground, but he looked into those lustful eyes. He looked back at him. Something was floating in his own fiery eyes as well, meant just for him.

  When they were done, they kicked him one more time, then mounted their horses. They ordered him to pick up the apples, spat on him, and left. He struggled to breathe, his open wounds on his back flaring with pain at every movement. He had to go back along the road to gather up the scattered apples. He needed to put new rope around the sacks since the old one had been cut. Fortune didn't need long to think about when it might have happened. As he tightened the twine around the mouths of the sacks, he saw their laughter in front of him, smelled the stench of that worthless one's breath. He pulled the rope even tighter this time.

  When he finally reached the altar, he ran his hand over it. He inspected it every day, and if he found a broken or missing stone, he immediately stuck it back in place with fresh mud.

  The altar had holes on the sides and top, under them a grate, and ashes at the bottom. He filled it with wood, then struck a fire and poured the apples into it. As the fire grew stronger, he just watched the flames and listened to them crackle as if they were screaming, begging for their lives. Not just the fruit, but the worms inside them too. The sugar worm was a real delicacy that could be sold for a good price. When one batch had cooked through, he refilled the altar, crouched down on the ground, and began tearing the sooty apples apart with his bare hands to the crackle of the fire. Their flesh was black, and only the worms shone white inside them. They no longer moved, having been cooked in the hot juice of the apples. Their final journey was into a sack, from which the only exit would lead straight into someone's mouth. Occasionally, after digging out a steaming worm, he mused over the path it might have taken. He imagined it eating the darkness around itself, then when it was full and there was nothing left to destroy, it pupated. A few weeks later, it pierced through the outer shell of the apple and finally broke free. It opened its wings, released its stinger, and no longer as just a worm, it could fly wherever it wanted as a killer mosquito.

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  That's what would have happened if it hadn't hatched in one of the apples in the breeding tents here. But even so, it was luckier. Otherwise, the only thing he would have known was eternal slavery.

  The sun had already half set behind the estate's wall and its red light spilled over it like the yolk of a dropped egg. He still needed to take the sugar worms to the storehouse, but he was still looking at the one in his palm. That brightly white thing he had scraped out of the apple's black flesh.

  ***

  He returned to the slaves' pen before the sun completely vanished behind the wall. The inhabitants were already preparing around their molehill-sized tents and hideous totems. Two arriving chainmail-wearers yanked a cauldron from their cart, in front of which a line quickly formed. They were already holding their small leather sacks. Fortune took his place at the end of the itching, murmuring, and peering line. Alongside the ragged, greasy-haired, long, overgrown-nailed individuals, a taller, dirtier slave with long nails but a straighter back, King, walked forward with ease. The line obediently stepped back, allowing King to take his place at the front. Fortune wanted to pull his sack over King's head but just stood in line, watching as King, smiling, shuffled back into his tent after receiving his portion. King's tent was the largest among the slaves. It was so unimaginably large that it was said one could even stand up inside. King was a slave like all the others, except he worked for the guards. He smuggled out meatballs, sugar worms, anything for which the guards would be hanged. He became a slave over the slaves.

  Fortune was next. He extended his dirty hand forward with his sack. One of the food distributors kept his hand on his sword while the other dipped a long-handled ladle into the sticky, still steaming stew filled with hairy leather scraps, pouring it into the sack. He wandered back to his tent, staring at his brown toenails, sat down, and waited, just like everyone else, except for the servers. They all knew what was coming next.

  Not long after the cauldron rattled empty and they were left alone, three of King’s men started making their way among them. Fortune too opened his sack before them, and they silently scooped out the day's tribute for King. At those moments, he felt foolish. "Patience. You have to wait for the sign," he repeated to himself.

  All the sunlight had disappeared behind the walls, and bright specks of dust appeared in the sky along with the chorus of mosquitoes, beginning their melancholic night song that spread over the entire estate. Darkness didn't just mean evening for them—it marked the start of the game of tag. At least for those who wanted to play. In their little pen, they could go and relieve themselves wherever they wanted, but their tiny scorched feet could not step beyond the pen until sunrise. Beyond that, the guards would chase them. Anyone they caught was out of the game. And they were gutted. Just like in tag.

  Among the slaves were a few women too. Which woman on which night varied, but tonight, a hollow-eyed woman presented herself before King’s tent without any need for prompting. Occasionally, even those few women quarreled over who would give in. Behind their scrawny, bony bodies seemed to lurk a little fat. Fortune guessed that they might get an extra spoonful in exchange for their moans.

  He crawled into his tent. The campfires crackled outside, some talked about the women, leaves rustled and a few meatballs squealed hungrily.

  As the night progressed, the laughter quieted, the conversations ended, and the whores had given themselves for the night. Only occasional snoring disrupted the silence. A few campfires still smoldered when he reemerged. Just enough light was there so that he wouldn't trip over anything. The moon was unobscured by clouds, and the tents, the trees, and the watchtower all bathed in its silvery light. As he climbed over the fence, the wooden structure wobbled and creaked under him. Fortune turned around and listened. He held his breath. No movement, no sound, just the squealing of the meatballs. He turned around once more, then backed out into the dark woods. Only on these nightly walks did he realize how terribly loud a twig could snap. Almost every step he took, he glanced at the road. If he saw someone, he would freeze until they were out of sight, only turning his neck and breathing so shallowly that he couldn't hear it himself. Sneaking between the trees, it was hard to distinguish human voices from the buzzing of mosquitoes.

  He made this journey to his altar every night, but that day it seemed someone had preceded him. Someones. He didn't move forward. The woman lay on her back on the altar, her legs dangling in the air, the moonlight glistening on her sweaty skin. Right behind her, the guard’s pants were pulled down, his fingers carving into the woman’s thigh. He grunted as he slammed into her lap, just like the meatballs noisily chomping on slop with their heads buried in the troughs. Fortune's breath caught in his throat.

  he thought, as he took a step forward, then another. Twigs snapped under his feet. The man's saliva dripped onto the sanctuary. He took another step forward. he repeated to himself. The woman looked back. He couldn't turn back now. Only shift aside enough to cast a shadow over his face. Then all Fortune could do was listen to the slapping, the grunting, the moaning, as the woman scratched at the stones with her hands. Suddenly, as if the man had choked, the grunting stopped, the moaning ceased, and the slapping came to an end. Once again, only the buzzing of the mosquitoes could be heard. Something dripped and splashed on the stones. A metal buckle clinked, feet squelched in the mud. The man spat, jumped on his horse, and galloped away.

  Fortune crawled forward, but as if his legs were tied, he couldn't approach his altar. His hands trembled, and as if the stones were burning hot, every time he tried to touch them, he yanked his hands back. He shook his head, then slowly, stepping back repeatedly, he circled the altar. "Here, the whore rubbed her filthy buttocks against my altar, and behind her was that worthless man," he remembered, trembling lips. Beneath him, a reddish-white filth stuck to the stones. He gagged and screamed, his hoarse voice echoing through the night. He clapped his hand over his mouth and ran, hiding among the trees. As far away, as deep into the estate's forest as possible. He didn't know for how long, but he crouched between the trees, the mosquitoes buzzing in his ears. He listened, watching for when a sword might glint. A horseman galloped down the road. He didn’t notice Fortune. When he had heard nothing but the mosquitoes for a long while, he gathered all his anger, recalling his defiled altar, the guards' grins, the worthless laughter of the undeserving, the joy of every fallen soul. He clasped his hands together, looked up at the sky, and staring straight at the glowing moon, he began his prayer:

  "Light, I thank you for every miracle, every beauty in the world. Forgive me for allowing your altar to be defiled. Darkness, give me a sword in my hand, give me an ax, give me fire, so that I may avenge what they have done to your altar. Give them into my hand. For you their screams will sound, for you their blood will flow, for you their teeth will burst, for you their bones will break. Light, guide my path, give light, give a sign. Show the way. Give a sign, give a sign, give a sign. Give a sign."

  A twig snapped behind him. A hand clamped around Fortune's neck.

  ***

  Fortune panted, his eyes darting around. More of them crawled out of the darkness. He still had work to do here; he couldn't die yet. He pushed himself with his feet and struggled with his hands. Each face was covered with a black cloth, and only their eyes were visible. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears.

  "Just kill him already, what are you waiting for?" A knife hissed out. Fortune calculated he might have as much time left as it takes to count to five in his head, and he was already at three.

  "I can help you. I work under the watchers."

  The cold blade touched his throat.

  "Could you smuggle out a sack of sugar worms?"

  "Not worms, rizus! Rizus!"

  "Speak!"

  "I know where they keep them. I'm the one who puts them in the storage. I water them twice a day," Fortune babbled.

  He turned around, looking for help, but couldn't even make out their faces. Their upper bodies were swallowed by the darkness. In the dark, he could only see a grin or a glint of an eye from the thieves. A branch cracked somewhere.

  "So, rizus, huh?" One of them rubbed his chin and gripped the sword at his side. "How do we know you won't run to the guards and tell them we were here?"

  "Because I won't do it for free." Fortune tried to slow down his speech as much as he could, but his heart still pounded madly. "If you get me out and remove the collar, I'll deliver the rizus to you."

  Laughter broke out, and Fortune looked around in confusion, then the knife pressed against his throat. They kicked his leg, making him collapse. He knelt before them, looking up as if they were giants.

  "So, you dare to make demands? Seems like you don't know your place."

  One of them leaned against a tree and drew his sword. The blade hummed, vibrating in front of Fortune's nose.

  "The fact is, we're the ones calling the shots here."

  He raised the sword.

  "Just two weeks..." Fortune began, but the sword was already swinging toward him.

  The tree trunk cracked loudly and couldn't stop the blade completely. It nicked Fortune's neck, and his blood trickled out.

  "You have one week."

  Fortune's melody of pain has just begun, and Ignis’s path is still drenched in shadow.

  A new chapter will be released every day at 6 PM (UTC) – until the end.

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  See you in the dark.