A desolate howl soars within the grit-ridden storm, a blinding source that closes draw distance, rendering one practically blind. It is an unfortunate time to be hasted to find shelter so abruptly, then pushed together within the small cavern. Karthuras and his flock rest in solitude, anticipating the storm’s end. The surface of these stones gave no sense of pardon, somewhat conflicting the mind to wonder about the outside force that is ‘random chance.’ It all begins with the Demon, who led them down this path of idealistic fortune. He sits across from the two tribes; some causally stare out of malice—as it trickles their minds with imaginative thoughts of paranoia.

  With his eyes shadowed by the fading light, he could observe such an expression, wondering if one, if any, would strike him instantly. He thought:

  This path has been extended—indeed, I may have led them to doom from my naivety… If one were to give up now, others would follow suit to their fear, controlled by its whims. The talks of peace and promise could never reach their minds unless I plague it.

  Karthuras finally spoke to his flock: “I can see those glares from here… A terrible idea must have intervened from the evil that lurks around us.”

  The man spoke: “Evil follows us to you!”

  “Your road butcher, lead to grave it does!” a woman added.

  “To those who remain sane,” Karthuras responded, “As you can see, these non-believers of the Ring Lord are willing to give in to the evil corruption surrounding us. It’s saddening to watch my people suffer… I must ask these poor souls to reconsider!”

  “No more talk!” the man said, with only the woman and one other man agreeing as they pulled out their knives. Their people pull them back from attacking the Demon.

  “No!” Gatlis demanded, “He speaks the truth! Only truth!”

  “Let go, coward! You all must suff—” Before he was able to finish his sentence, he was stabbed by Gatlis.

  Karthuras took a deep breath from this occurrence, dreading its outcome. Those same rebellious souls are chopped, drained of their blood, and used for everyone’s survival. Seventy-five, now reduced to seventy-two. He reminded himself:

  This is the nature of humanity. There is no better outcome than they will follow willingly. Such restraints were afforded to the few… What am I saying? There are too many inconsistencies, and they are not persistent in the ways of Sleeper. Gatlis and I had—transformed our conviction many times already… Again, I need to focus; we still have a few miles after this storm ends.

  When the storm ended, they followed Karthuras’s trail across the mounds until they saw their destination from afar—the capital—a wondrous sight conflicted by the trails of steam releasing from the tall iron pipes. Buildings that refer to the body of spiders, embracing the other in morbid ways of touch. The outer walls are covered, hung in the skeletal remains of a thousand previously departed souls. His very last shred of optimism dissipated to the final scar—fetid with a particular infection. As for his people, it was the opposite: a sight of a new beginning. It is a bizarre difference in comprehension.

  The sight of unholy corruption came next over the next few miles. The abundance of steel bolts litters the rotting corpses. He assumes these are remains of other tribes. The hollow screeching of a particular instrument abrupted his focus, and the others all turned to the stranger who made this uncanny noise of distortion. He was tall, seven feet long, holding an instrument of tight, thick strings. With a simple wave of his long fingers, a sound emits a similar cry—not of sorrow, but rather a welcoming expression. His body was bandaged with ebony strips edged with silver lines. The thick black mantel covered his broad, prolonged head—five feet wide, shaped abnormally unlike a human or Gramnorian.

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  In a short stretch of fingers, the instrument drones a soft tune. Soft enough for this stranger to speak without interrupting himself:

  “An old relic of a bygone era arrives in decay—his sense follies to a conclusion. That will come sooner than expected.”

  Karthuras replied: “I can tell you’re a demon such as I… But your purpose here, I must question the circumstance.”

  The stranger replied: “To guide my fellow Demon to his desired destination… Of course, I must redirect you from making a mistake.” He tilts his head towards the row of corpses. “You will be in the range of the empress's guardsman. All of whom carry cross bolts… What a shameful way to battle. Whatever happened to the parlay of swords or fists?”

  “We are doomed!” cried one of the women.

  “Must return! Must return!” one of the men added.

  “In either way…” The stranger continued, “Hope is not at all transparent—Now, should you walk the mile more?”

  Karthuras asked: “What else is there?”

  “None…” The stranger answered with a sorrowful pull from his string, “Out here at least, but down below these decayed lands underlies the dungeon of Sleeper. Some had called it the ‘Labyrinth of Foundation.’ I will not force your decision either way, but if you—and your flock wish to find sanctuary, you must transverse the exposed corridors until you reach the sewer system.”

  “What do you gain by helping us?” asked Karthuras.

  “Nothing… Nothing at all; there is little in life that I need thanks to these conditions of mine. Sooner or later, you will learn to appreciate it, if not already.”

  He paused to ponder, “—This dungeon you speak of, I have never heard of it before.”

  “That is because it’s supposed to remain in the depths for years to come… But such—are the ways of life when a curious demon explores the caverns of this world. You and I were never meant to go down there either, but the damage is done—so thus, we walk towards the back entrance and embrace the world down below.”

  “This could bring worse outcomes…” Melg added, “Should we not try to approach the front gates?”

  “By all means…” The stranger added with a jester’s smirk.

  Melg turns to one of the children. The boy walks forward with a smack from her staff, rubbing his now soar head. Alone and afraid, he went on for a moment—only for his skull to be penetrated by a swift, finger-length bolt. He falls over, spilling his blood upon the already-infested soil. The cries of his parents ring as Melg is taken back by his death.

  “seventy-one…” said the stranger as he adjusted his instrument.

  The melancholy tune waves in the air with dashes of idealistic fortune in his lyrics. A song of bitter delight, some would consider it a gamble of outcomes that comes from a pre-selection of variables. ‘Maybe—what if?’ The whats and ifs scatter within the random thoughts in Karthuras’s imagination. Looking up into the sky with his hollow gaze, he stares evermore at the ceding sun in the middle of Sleeper’s ring, much like an eye—it stares emotionless without the presence of its true face.

  “This place of foundation—” The stranger suddenly said, “Is a place where it all began, the terror, the harmony, love—hatred—bitter bliss, and so much more, the workings of a mad god who knows only how to create. Either succumbing to the madness of creation or delighted to see its growth… Tell me, Phader. What would you do if given the power to create a new world?

  Karthuras responds: “To create a utopia, a welcoming place where anyone and everyone is welcomed. A place where chaos can never loom in the darkest shadow.”

  “But that’s it… Chaos always roams when you least expect it to; in fact, it prefers you not to expect! To learn from your environment means you will gain the knowledge needed to see the flaws around you. But then again, if they all live in this idealistic world, they will never know their creation's flaws—and their neighbor's flaws. No, they will all become husks repeating treading the never-ending path.”

  “Not unless I am there to create it.”

  The stranger scoffed, “I suppose you will learn when you see it all shamble before you… Ah, it seems we made it to our destination.” He points toward the ruins, where a rectangular cavern lies in isolation, its mouth opened as the pillar of ebony teeth cracks from the lack of care. The throat echoes a whaling tune as they approach, marveling at the carved walls, all depicting animals and humans.

  He continued: “Beyond the thousand steps lies the capital’s foundation, around every corner, and scattered around every wall—you will eventually reach towards the sewer system, and from there, you will enter the capital.”

  “Will you not guide us?” Asked Karthuras.

  “I’m already preoccupied at the moment—matters that are very important… Perhaps we will meet again, but I wouldn’t count on it… And, of course, the sun shall rest over the horizon here shortly. Your people need their rest. Would you not agree?”