Fortune's eyes snapped open as if he had awakened from a nightmare. He looked around, saw the tower above the trees, and knew the nightmare hadn't ended but had only continued. In the mornings, the apple pickers, the meatball feeders, and the other worthless bastards in the pen were like statues on those beautiful temples in the upper world. Except they crouched, and crap gurgled out of them. The smell of steaming filth permeated the pen. As he leafed through his thoughts, everyone slowly trickled out of the pen, but Fortune still paced back and forth like a ghost, weaving around the tents and charcoal chunks. His stomach churned. He had the chance to escape the estate. He only needed to get a rizus. The problem was that it was nearly impossible, and the only thing he'd get in a week instead of freedom would be his own guts in his hands.

  As he went to the stables for Broom and set out for the apples, the sky rumbled and was already overcast. Only a few guards could be seen on the roads, as was usual in the early hours. Some were still snoozing somewhere after the night watch. The entrances to most breeding tents weren't visible from the roads; the paths leading to them were overgrown by trees from all sides, but the red flags could be caught above the trees. These indicated that there was no point in picking until the next harvest began, as they had run out of wormy apples. The rizus filled his mind as the biting wind whipped rusty-edged leaves and the smell of blood into his face. Even if things were as he had lied to them, it would still have been difficult to get even one. In reality, the only thing he knew about the rizus was that it was grown in a fenced-off corner of the main building. Slaves were only taken there when the curious watchers felt like dissecting a few.

  He yanked the reins in his hand. He yanked the reins again.

  That night, Fortune snuck out again and went to the same place where he had met the thieves yesterday. No one was there, no matter how long he waited. He snuck back to his tent, tore off a piece, cut his hand on a blade of grass, and began writing on the fabric with his blood. He made his way back through the trees to the meeting place, hung it on a branch, and hoped someone would read it.

  ***

  He didn’t find a single footprint, torn scrap of cloth, coin, or anything else, no matter how many times he searched the surrounding trees and bushes. He was starting to believe it had all been a dream. As he replayed their memory in his mind, he touched his neck. The scar was there. The scar from the sword. The sword belonged to one of the thieves. Every time he started to doubt, he just touched it to remember there was hope. He kept repeating it to himself as he picked apples off the ground, as he tightened the sacks, as he crawled back among the mosquitoes. he thought,

  During the day, when he wore that sweaty costume and could hardly breathe, he suddenly sprawled on the ground in the breeding tent as if he had been knocked out, waiting to see how the mosquitoes would react. Those darlings quickly noticed the hopeless body on the ground. Fighting each other, they hurried over and jabbed at him from all sides. Fortune just listened to the little scratches and stings tapping on the leather, reveled in the buzzing, and marveled at the dance of mosquitoes covering his body. The costume twitched on the ground, something hummed inside, joining the song of the mosquitoes. Fortune laughed.

  When he snuck out to pray after sunset, the next message from the thieves awaited him where he had left his piece of leather earlier: "OK." Just that one word, nothing more. He didn't find anything new there then or in the following days. He suspected they hadn't even been there. The only thing he could do was wait, listening to the snorts, whimpers, and laughter of the meatballs and the damned day after day, while he had to breathe the same air they squeezed out of their bellies.

  "How much longer do I have to do this?" Fortune wondered, his trembling hand crushing and squeezing the black flesh of the apple, letting it drip in pieces from his gloved fist.

  Someone laughed.

  He pulled the flap of the breeding tent open just a crack. One of the slaves was giggling as he untied one of the sacks and scattered the apples across the ground. Fortune clenched the harvesting rod in his hand.

  With heavy, sweat-soaked steps, he stormed out of the tent. The slave just kept laughing at him. Fortune raised his hand and struck him across the face with the rod. The giggling, ragged fool spun around, his jaw cracked to one side, and fell to the ground with his mouth half open. Fortune simply collapsed on top of him in his heavy suit, pinning one of his arms beneath him. Gripping the rod with both hands, he pressed it against the man’s throat, shoving it into the mud until, all of a sudden, he realized there was no resistance left. He smiled and began to breathe with satisfaction, relieved.

  But the damned one still laughed, still breathed. Fortune was still standing at the tent entrance, another piece of apple falling from his hand to the ground. The damned one emptied the last sack. For a while, he watched with satisfaction as the apples lay scattered, then he ran away. Fortune let go of the flap and collapsed to the ground. He imagined once more that the man was beneath him. He threw the rod aside and started punching the mud.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "We're not the same. We're not the same. Cursed damned one. Cursed damned ones," he yelled. His breath warmed the mask, and everything became misty and warm inside. His hair stuck to his forehead and face. "We're not the same."

  In the middle of the night, he set out on his usual path again. The message waiting at the meeting place read: "OK." Always the same message.

  On the way back, he stopped in front of his sanctuary. He knelt down and began to pray. He prayed for the suffering of the guards, the thieves, and so many others. When he finished, he spent a few more minutes just staring at the moon, that beautiful disc, the glowing eye of Darkness.

  In the morning, laughter woke him up. When he crawled out of his tent, two slaves were there, watching him and laughing so hard they were almost choking.

  "I saw you. I saw you last night. I saw you praying. And everyone knows you're a stupid gray believer," one of them said, then, losing all self-control, nearly exploding with laughter. The laughing slave opened his mouth so wide it looked like it would tear apart.

  ***

  Clutching the tree trunk, he pulled himself up. The skin on his hand tore, and blood dripped down his palm. With his other hand, he hugged the tree, supporting himself with one leg as he slowly, gasping and dizzy, got to his feet. Then he collapsed back to the ground. The mosquitoes buzzed in the breeding tent. Fortune touched his stomach. He hissed as his hand brushed one of the purplish bruises. The world spun around him, and as he walked, his legs tangled, causing him to fall.

  With every step, at least two of his muscles, which had been kicked to pulp, tensed up. He hissed as he bent down for the apples, as if pretending to be a snake. He kept swatting them down one after another, flinching and limping inside the breeding tent. He filled the sacks and heaved them onto the cart, then turned back for another load. Broom neighed with his head down.

  The apples were starting to run out. He had to go to another nearby tent to continue working. When there was no more room for sacks on the cart, he tore off his mask. He fell to his knees. First, the slaves had kicked, punched, and hit him with whatever they could find that morning simply because he had dared to pray to the Gray god. Then the chainmail-wearers followed. They simply said he wasn't working hard enough. Fortune didn't think that was the reason, but he was sure that if they beat him up one more time today, he wouldn't be able to get up again, and it would be difficult to escape from there.

  He was about to leave with the cart when he turned back, tore and ripped open one of the sacks, then stomped the scattered apples to mush with his foot.

  That evening, he sat down next to his tent and looked around at the rabble. The only reason he looked at them was to remind him why he was there. All around the camp stood bone and wooden pillars, piles of stones, stitched and hung skins. There was even a pile of dung next to one tent, and one of its followers crouched beside it to further beautify their god. Fortune's lip twitched erratically, his eyes widened, and he puffed with his mouth. The blood rushed to his head. Knowing that every spit, bone, and even a pile of excrement was prayed to, but not the almighty Gray god who created them all, almost made his head explode.

  Fortune's thoughts were interrupted as three of King's ragged men blocked the remaining light in front of him. They held out their sacks toward him, one of them holding a spoon. They looked at Fortune with the same disgust he had for them. He held out his sack, which contained his daily ration of food. They snatched the sack from his hand. Fortune said nothing. He couldn't say anything.

  "Pray to someone else if you still want to eat," one of them said, looking down at him before they walked away.

  The Moon was in the sky again, and the Darkness looked down at him. He didn't light a fire; he just crawled into his tent. It was time for the evening prayer, so he had to pray. Tonight, it took longer than usual for the muttering, groaning, and peeing sounds to stop. Fortune's hands and feet scratched incessantly at the shaggy, tattered leather he had spread beneath him.

  He had no idea how much time had passed or how much longer until sunrise. Every muscle was already numb, and his bruises were hot as if burning iron had been pressed to his skin. He could still hear laughter, farts, and spitting, but he couldn't stay in his place another minute.

  Eventually, ignoring the sounds, he crawled out of his tent. A nearby campfire immediately lit up his face. It was abandoned, but not too far away, some were still scratching or staring into the fire. Crawling on the ground, he hurried into the shadows. The darkest corner of them, to the very edge of the pen, where the god of dung dwelled and expanded. All he had to do was smell the air to know he was close. He remained motionless a little longer and watched those who were still awake. They didn't seem to want to go to sleep until morning. Finally, his hand made the decision for him, and he climbed over the fence. The wind blew, and the cold stung his face. He didn't care about the branches hitting him; he just hurried to his sanctuary. This time, no one was there. He knelt down, looked into the silver eye of the Darkness, and began to pray.

  He went to the place where he had met the thieves. The rag was still there, but the message on it was different. "Tomorrow night. Here." There was something else too. Fortune took the vial in his hand. He shook it and looked through the dark liquid in the moonlight, then put it away. He bent down again, his hand grasped the handle. He raised the blade up to his eyes. A narrow smile appeared on his face as he ran his finger along the edge. Blood oozed from the cut.

  Fortune keeps walking deeper into the dark, and Ignis still can't see the flame.

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

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  See you in the Darkness.