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—”

  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 — 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 — 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 — 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.

  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.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  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 — 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 — 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—this 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 — 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 — fast — 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 — 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.