Thump.

  A crimson robed man threw a body onto the sandy field. Harsh sunlight illuminated them, yet both the man and the body didn’t burn. The abrupt blow woke the body from its nightmare, gasping in the dry air into its plump lungs — Botuk’s lungs.

  Thump.

  Another body landed on the sand, thrown by a different red robed man. With his half-opened eyes, Botuk recognised their porters as the two acolytes in the Overseer’s entourage. He remembered his defeat at the hands of the evil creature, and the Overseer who left them to die, her voice telling these goons to dispose of them. Is that why they were on the surface? For their corpses to burn into ash, leaving no trace of their leader’s misdeeds.

  Another body slammed into the sand, then more, until six bodies, including his, were lying side by side on the desert surface. Their red robes sprawled on the sand, an ironic contrast to the same red robes worn by their disposers towering over them — a mockery of brotherhood in faith. If it was ever real to begin with, thought Botuk.

  Botuk didn’t know where he was. For all his experience as a collector on the surface, this spot was new to him. Full of soft hot ochre sand. This was not anywhere near the canyon opening. In his unconscious state, the two acolytes must have brought him through another surface entrance, one he did not know of, maybe one only known to real members of the faith. It surprised him, living to see his body’s disposal, and conscious to boot. The other victims were certainly not.

  Fire. The body to his right burst into flame, crackling as it consumed the desiccated flesh. He would have said some words to the fallen, if not for the lethargy immobilising his jaw, and for the thought that he might join them soon. The heat from the fire wasn't even noticeable, overshadowed by the heat of the Sun — the Warden. Botuk wondered why he or the others weren’t burning, but he was too tired to care.

  More fire erupted from his right. Botuk was at the centre of the pile, watching the two acolytes stare at the flaming corpse. A wave of lethargy accompanied his crossing into the liminal. The world inverted, black turned white, white turned black and everything else turned a shade of dull grey. Yet Botuk’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the one thing that wasn’t dull. Within the acolytes, above their navels, the shimmering yellow-orange glow of Inner Fire pulled all his attention. And with it, slithering through the lethargy, his hunger began to grow.

  The previous thought bounced into mind: A flame of life, when devoured, should bring life to its devourer. Should it not? Yet as the two acolytes — satisfied that they had carried out their orders — left, it was a thought that may never be tested.

  A gust picked up, blowing the grey flames away from Botuk and clearing his vision of the departing acolytes, silhouetted against the grey sky. The vast, endless sky weeping for their deaths. Wait, weeping?

  Under the grey sky of the liminal, orange embers fell like shooting stars — each miniature in size but infinite in quantity. Hundreds struck Botuk’s face, leaving no sensation as they impacted.

  Is this rain? Miraculous water given by the heavens? Botuk fought through the lethargy to unhinge his jaw and stuck his tongue out, like in the stories of old. Yet the cool refreshing feeling promised to him by those tales didn’t materialise. Only the heat of the Sun boiling the saliva off his tongue came to be. Botuk racked his brain, trying to recall the stories from his childhood, but came up empty. Even the people who had told him those stories every night were now a blur.

  Botuk looked for the source, following the trajectory of the glowing embers. But the closer he got, the harder it was to see. Blinding. Like daggers lodging in his eyes, pushing deeper into his brain. He noticed the source was in a part of the sky he previously dared not observe, hanging above and sunwards. The Warden.

  ‘Giver of life’ huh, the nonsense the Overseer said might not be nonsense after all. He couldn’t directly see, but he could imagine. If the Overseer’s Inner Fire was an inferno, what then of the Warden? A deity so powerful that it emitted what Botuk lacked — and what he sought.

  He shifted his gaze to the ground, turning away from the source and towards its destination — the sand. Flowing, shifting dunes, grey like the rest but flickering with the orange light of embers. Awe overcame his lethargy as he twisted his neck, staring at the dense collection of embers clinging to every mound of sand. Even the sand beneath him shimmered with orange light, pooling drool at the back of his throat.

  More flames broke through Botuk's voracity, this time from the body directly to his left. The flames were grey, like the burning body — dull for such a dreadful sight. The marble-sized Inner Fire of a failed acolyte had been reduced to cinders. Three specks of embers lingered between life and death. Now two, as the fire tore into skin, burnt flesh flaking into the fire’s wind.

  Just as another ember was about to leave the body, Botuk flickered back from the liminal realm, bringing colour to his senses and hiding the inner flame. The body continued to burn, now fiercely yellow and orange, until the last ember — Botuk presumed — had left. The flames died down, consuming its final fuel, turning his comrade-in-betrayal to ash. Last to burn were the red robes, unbound from its wearer, red to white to ash.

  He flickered back to the liminal. Only seconds had passed, Botuk’s time in the living world grew shorter and inversely, longer in the liminal. He did not know about this world of grey, this world between life and death. The only thing he knew was that the living may enter the in-between for a time, but he feared that a permanent stay would only invite you to the next realm — the realm of death. For all this time, he had avoided confronting his mortality, even after the grievous wounds, even after seeing others in flames. Now, he looked down, staring deeply at his navel, at his Inner Fire — a blazing fire reduced to sparks and embers. Forty specks of embers. Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight, losing more every second.

  His face was now immobile, stuck facing to the side, whatever remained of the grey fire above, and below, the shimmering sand that brushed his cheeks. The remnants of his bloated stomach growled under taut, desiccated skin, as if the acid were corroding through its lining, pulling his gaze toward the sand.

  Hunger. Death. Regret. What does the world become without me? Nothing different. My body dies like any other, cremated in the light, under His gaze. What of the dreams they had that drove them? Snatched away, spilled and left me behind. What does a friend say to a friend who reaches further, who failed on their first step? Try again. But Rita, there’s no trying again this time.

  Thirty-one. Thirty. Time was running out.

  At least you are safe, Botuk thought of Rita. He wanted to smile, but his muscles refused to cooperate.

  The man in Botuk’s memories materialised, a mirage. Father, old man, family. Why? I want to see you again, to listen to your laughter when you tell me of far away tales, of righteous people, of my mother who you missed so. Why did you leave me? I’ll ask. And you’ll tell me your answer. That you love me, that you were taken, that you had to leave me be. That you love me, and I’ll accept, because I love you.

  More embers left his body. Even under the sunlight, his core turned cold.

  But I can’t get your answer now, yet I still want it. I still desire it. Want. Desire. Need. Want. Desire. Need.

  Botuk gulped his boiling drool. His facial muscles had relaxed, his jaw unlatched, exposing his maw to the Sun. He reminisced — thoughts of his abandonment, of his dream to find them, of reuniting his family as it once was. Yet hunger beckoned, like an iron cord pulling his gaze toward the grey sand, its orange embers enchanting him.

  Giver of life, give me life.

  Hunger and desire broke the hold that lethargy had on his muscles as he gulped the sand beneath his cheeks, reflexively hacking out the hot, dry substance. Divine — the taste was divine. Tears welled in Botuk’s weary eyes, only to evaporate a second later. The coarse sand ground his teeth into dust, yet its sweetness lingered, a bliss on the palate. Dissolving in his saliva, a flavour both light yet impossibly rich, of honey mixed with all the spices in the world. He swallowed, after swishing the sand around his mouth, like an addict, reluctant to part with the ambrosia.

  His shrivelled body came alive as the sand infused an agency into his limbs. His mind abjured thoughts of death, leaving only a drive to survive. Botuk looked inward, watching the bits of orange light travelling down his oesophagus, into the stomach, stopping three finger-widths above the navel. The Inner Fire waned and weaved, then exploded outward into tendrils of flames, reaching for its sustenance, enlarging the source-flame as it digested.

  Like a thirsting animal brought to water, Botuk guzzled more sand, swallowing again and again. With each mouthful, the sand lost its heat as his powers surged. The Sun’s heat grew cooler with every gulp. His Inner Fire flared brighter, and his strength returned, and the liminal realm flickered back to colour.

  His skeletal form grew hale as muscles and fat inflated to cover bone. Skin loosened to accommodate his new shape, as flesh and fluid reappeared beneath. Plump organs, now sheltered under fresh tissue, settled where they belonged. No longer was Botuk desiccated. No longer did he feel weak. He felt the changes, the strength returning, but his only desire was to feed. Botuk let loose, hands scrambling to shove every last fistful of sand into his mouth. A dune as tall as him crumbled in half before it brought him satisfaction. He devoured four times his weight in sand, yet felt as light as a feather. No longer did he fade in and out of the liminal; he existed firmly in the world of the living.

  Botuk felt magnificent, breathing in the hot air as if it were a cool breeze. Arms and legs stretched full to purge his limbs of sluggishness. He inspected his healed skin, examining the changes. At the start of the day, his skin was black and scarred, then carbonised and bleeding after being blessed on the dais. Now it turned a pale white, like the acolytes who disposed of him, like the Overseer — smooth, scarless, alabaster skin.

  It is not miraculous rain, he thought, running his hands through the grains. It is something greater. He grabbed more sand, not to stuff his face, but to fill his pockets. Like before, his robes — now red — sagged as every sash and fold cradled fistfuls of hot sand. Yet, unlike before, the weight felt trivial. His current strength far surpassed the person he once was. Should he face a skilled collector, Botuk felt he could despatch them with a single swing, like that acolyte did to him.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Looking around, those acolytes who had brought him here were gone, slipping through a hidden entryway he didn’t know. He contemplated fleeing, abandoning the canyon and its treacherous leaders for good. Yet, from horizon to horizon, stretched nothing but dunes.

  No, I may be immune to sunlight, but that doesn't mean I can wander aimlessly. Let alone face what lurks in those dunes. He shuddered at the thought of another face-filled creature ambushing him from beneath the sand. He had to go back. Think Botuk, think! They couldn’t have thrown us far. He rubbed his head, surprised by the prickly stubble already growing where he had shaved earlier.

  He brainstormed a plan — one to keep him alive while he waited for another chance to leave the canyon. For that, he needed to understand where he was. Botuk searched for a high point, the tallest sand mound he could climb. There, his eyes glimpsed of brown rock and dirt hidden between yellow dunes. A field cleared of sand or dust, created through decades if not centuries of collector labour — a field surrounding his home: the canyon. Yet he looked elsewhere, searching for the other entrance. The one they used. But nothing came to sight. Botuk thought of his time in the lower caverns, at the ascension dais, and the complex mechanism that opened the ceiling. He hoped otherwise, but it was always a longshot. The canyon’s very public entrance had to be it.

  Botuk made his way to the canyon lip, keeping an eye out for other collectors who might spot him. It was crucial that he didn’t attract too much attention. He couldn’t let word reach the Overseer that the person she had used and discarded was still alive. Best not to give her the chance to finish the job.

  The journey to the canyon lip was devoid of people, odd but not unheard of. Perhaps he had caught them between shifts, between the ten groups’ rotations. Definitely odd. Yet, peeking over the lip, aside from the four giant mirrors at the centre, he saw nothing below. It was time.

  Quick and confident. No hesitation.

  With a deep breath, Botuk leaped down, ignoring the rungs on the side walls, landing on his powerful feet. The sound he made caused a stir, but the colours he wore sparked fright. Everyone stared at him — the pale acolyte, just like any other. He also looked at the spot where the caravan had docked, now empty. He had expected this, yet it still disappointed him. The next merchant visit — his ticket out — was six months away. For now, he had to lie low and hide.

  Just as he exited the dais, something he dreaded happened. A familiar Foreman greeted him, avoiding eye contact in submission.

  “Your Eminence, what word do you bring from the Overseer?” said Foreman Modat.

  He doesn’t recognise me? Excellent! His new crimson robes didn't come with a veil, leaving his entire head exposed. He had prepared to deflect questions, but his new skin and stubbled hair were surpassing expectations.

  His voice could still expose him, so Botuk just shook his head and waved the Foreman off, making his way right-flare to his personal cave. He strode with confidence, as if above the masses, his gaze lifted above the crowd. I’m an acolyte, a real acolyte, he reassured himself. The faster he got out of prying eyes, the better. As quickly as he could, he left the main throughway, taking a quieter path. A fast-moving acolyte in the caverns shouldn't generate much gossip, but he could never be too careful.

  Six months. Lie low for six months. Then the caravan arrives. Then? He took another corner into residential paths. Then what to pay the caravan leader? Water would take another two years to collect. Sand? No, that would be stupid. Sacred gems? The one I gave was for Rita and anymore would be with the Overseer. No, too risky. It would have to be himself. I can offer my strength in labour for travel out of here. The plan hinged on the caravan leader recognising his worth, but he couldn’t think of another way.

  Botuk stood just outside the cavern that led to his personal cave. The path was sparse, but not empty, so he had to wait for the perfect moment to slip inside. There was no need for anyone to question why an acolyte would enter this dead-end path.

  He waited by the mirror, as though inspecting it for damage. When heads turned from his gruff stare and nosy feet finally left him alone, he rushed into the cavern, to his cave, pulling the fabric curtain shut behind him. For the first time since donning these red robes, he released a heavy sigh.

  The next day, or however many hours, Botuk slept.

  GONG! GONG! GONG!

  The white robed adolescent boy woke to familiar sounds of gongs. However, no calls from the old Foreman erupted as the ringings headed further into the cavern, passing his cave. To the rest of the canyon, he was deep below on a mission for the Overseer to save them from evil. For countless days, Botuk had wished to be allowed to sleep in, though not in this manner. Once the sounds were far away, he slightly parted the fabric door open, then sighed. Because the Foreman didn't know he was there, Botuk received no rations.

  He brought himself to the previous spot where he hid his water, the hole beneath his sleeping mat, removing the cracked stone to reveal sand, cradled by his red robes. A handful of sand made its way into his mouth, filling his stomach and stunning him with its pleasurable flavour.

  Botuk yawned forcefully, the fatigue from yesterday still weighing on him. But when he tried to exercise away the torpor, he stumbled to the ground. The lethargy pressed down on him — not overwhelming, but growing stronger with each passing minute. Again? No, I’m healed! He got up, gripping the cave wall for balance. In a daze, he scanned the room, searching for an intruder, for whatever creature was draining him. Yet nothing appeared and the hunger returned with a vengeance. Botuk was still in the land of the living; the colours were still vivid even through the dim light. But he felt it was only a temporary reprieve.

  More sand. He sat cross-legged above the secret pit, shovelling handful after handful of sand into his mouth. The pleasurable taste was lost with each gullet-full, swallowed too quickly to savour, overshadowed by his mounting anxiety. More sand. The flesh of his hands scraped against the red robes, then his fingers, before Botuk brought the fabric to his lips, sucking it eagerly. No grain of sand would go to waste, but after depleting the ambrosia, his hunger remained. On the surface, he consumed half a dune to keep himself sated. This paltry sum amounted to nothing.

  Listless eyes stared at the hidden pit, now empty. Botuk needed more sand. Megat intersection. The glassblowers of Megat intersection have sand overflowing from their containers. He decided on his next course of action.

  Hiding the red robes in the pit beneath the mat, Botuk made his way to the glassblowers. White robes covered his exposed skin, double veiled, with rocks tucked under his feet to alter his gait as he made his way towards the opening. Megat intersection was the first junction in the windward caverns. Its wide-grade mirror reflected intense heat being so close to the surface — enough to melt and refine sand into glassware. However, the opening was teeming with people who could recognise him — risky — so he decided on a circuitous detour just before.

  Botuk ran, wasting no more time than necessary. Running collectors were a dime a dozen. The mirror of Megat intersection shone into a large confined cave, concentrating its energy into glass lenses that focused the light into furnaces. Unfortunately, the lenses were brittle and prone to melting, causing the intersection to be busy with blowers, crafting new lenses and all the glassware the canyon needed. For Botuk, however, the commotion easily concealed his theft. A quick swipe through an unsuspecting open vat was enough for a handful, followed by a feigned cough to bring the sand to his mouth.

  Yuck. A real cough spewed the sand from his mouth. The grains brought no divine pleasure, no sense of satiation. Upon closer inspection of the open vat, the sight of the sand stirred nothing in him — no bubbling hunger, no yearning.

  Disappointment and anger coursed through his veins, while the lethargy drained his strength, causing his legs to tremble beneath him. He wanted to rage, but a flicker in and out of the liminal stopped him. This is no time for anger. I need solutions.

  What is the difference between this sand and the ones on the surface? Location? Direct sunlight? No, it makes no sense. The only difference could be… refinement! Before the sand was brought here, it was sifted for minerals. That must be it! Sifting must have separated or destroyed the bonded embers on the grains. I can find unsifted sand — at the opening.

  The opening. Another flicker in and out. He had to take the risk.

  People streamed throughout the opening, either with business there or just moving through. Though it was busier when the caravan docked. Now he could actually move through without bumping. Here, he could easily spot each individual person. Feel their inner flames calling to him, stroking his appetite. He swallowed a mouthful of drool. The hunger intensified, and he knew he had to get sand before he regretted it.

  Flames. Two collectors wielded their flaming long broom before extinguishing it with sand. Botuk examined the extinguishing sand, but it did not stir his hunger. Only the sand on the dais that was swept into vats caught his appetite — the fresh sand from the surface. His hunger pulled him to it, but he hesitated. This wasn't like in Megat. The opening was wide, with many eyes focused on the collectors around the dais, their attention drawn by the commotion of flaming brooms and hissing steam — hardly surprising. The vats were inspected by Foreman, keeping tabs on each collector's load. Then sealed when full to be brought by another Foreman-escorted team to the sifters down below. They guarded the vat at every step of the way. Even the sifters must be guarded, though Botuk didn’t know for sure. The minerals sifted were the canyon’s lifeblood, traded for other resources to make the people’s lives livable. He would be foolish to steal. The attention it would bring would summon an acolyte, if not the Overseer.

  I have to try, thought Botuk. The hunger was now overwhelming. The lethargy, like weights on his body.

  I have to think. Problem, solutions. He gnawed on his fingernails, relishing the stuck grains of sand lodged underneath. Botuk walked to his cave, lost in thought. Should I go back to the surface? Not as a collector, but as an acolyte. The attention that would bring. Impossible. I can try my luck with the sifters down below. Maybe they won’t guard it as much as I thought.

  Tch! he clicked his tongue. The more he thought, the narrower his options became. Another flicker into the liminal, lasting a few seconds this time. Time was running out. He barrelled closer to his personal cave, passing by mirror after mirror. Make a choice, up or down, red or white robes. There was no mirror to his left as he passed the melted remnants. Is the lack of light a sign to try below? Another melted mirror passed. Or maybe the melting heat is a sign to try above? The final melted mirror made him pause, halting a momentum he wasn’t sure his lethargy would let him regain. Yet he still halted.

  This was the site where he first saw the failed acolyte, his powers forming a billowing shield that prevented the sweltering heat from reaching the crowd. It was where he saw the residence of a dozen collectors consecrated to darkness, its fog inviting him. Now a fence of uneven stone separated him from the pitch black cavern. Yet through it, he saw the darkness swirl, sway, and beckon, as though a creature lived within it. Because it did.

  Limbs and faces of that evil creature still haunted him. In the liminal realm, he saw the Inner Fire in each face — the fire it took from him and the others. A fire thousands of times larger and hotter than the embers bonded to sand. Tasty sand, delicious fire.

  Though even with his life on the line, he wouldn’t have the courage to face the many-faced creature. The pain and suffering its simple attacks caused were enough to dissuade him. Had it not been for the others distracting, and the Overseer defeating it, he would have died there. No, what Botuk sought was a weaker creature — like the snake-like one coiling around his periphery. Weak, and — he thought — full of Inner Fire. From what he had seen, every living being, both humans and the horrifying creatures of the dark, had Inner Fire. Peering into the darkness, Botuk could not see, but he knew it teemed with fire-bearing life. Like with the others. Like with Rita.

  Another flicker turned the black fog into white. Now he was in the liminal for up to a minute. Botuk wasn't sure he had a choice — not anymore. If he wanted to survive for the next six months until the caravan arrived, if he wanted to live long enough to ask his questions to his father, he would have to enter the darkness and seek monsters.

  Botuk put a hand to the stone-stacked fence, wobbling the flimsy structure. The fence was just a visual barrier, meant to inform, not to prevent. After all, who would willingly seek death?

  A hard push from Botuk tumbled the stone to the ground, opening the entrance. If the noise alerted the surrounding people, he didn’t care.

  One step brought his leg and front half into the darkness.

  Botuk would fight to survive. He will.

  A second step fully engulfed him, turning his spectators into gaping mouths.