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.

  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, the stark naked adolescent boy took his time waking — stretching his well-worn muscles.

  “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. “Botuk, now!”

  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?” said Botuk.

  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 — 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 extracted 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.

  Minutes later, Botuk appeared, sashed in white robes, with a white shawl draped around his neck — ready to be lifted into a veil as needed. He strolled down the throughway, a cavernous path that was bone dry and, at its end, narrowed to the point of claustrophobia. However, 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,” Rita’s voice emerged 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,” said 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 walked 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 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?! His eyes bulged under his veil. 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 — where Botuk was heading.

  “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.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “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—”

  “Don’t ask, boy. Either get some rocks to cover this hole or get lost,” said the Foreman, waving him off. 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 — 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 — Botuk looked at the smirking, unveiled Rita — 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.

  “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—, 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 — 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 — 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 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 — 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.