The Overseer was a title. Chosen by the elders of the faith to lead the upper caverns. Through her foremen, and on the threat of exile, all obeyed her commands.

  The crimson figure raised a hand, commanding her entourage to stop. A lanky Foreman strutted to her, almost tripping as he straightened his robes. For many collectors, the sight of a meek Foreman would be a first. Unconcerned by his tension, she whispered her decree, leaving the Foreman slack-jawed.

  The Overseer was a leader of faith. A representative of the masses in rituals, and a conduit of the Warden. Crimson robes heralded her faith and black marked her rank.

  White robes bowed in reverence, a shallow lean respecting her station, giving her a wide berth as to not impede her duties. Though the bloodshot eyes looked ahead, ignoring their worshipping act.

  Her entourage parted the bowing crowd, their presence spreading with a subtle pressure. The astute worshippers moved away, making a path to the Yirn’s head. For the last two years of the Overseer surfacing, she had always dealt with the caravan leader.

  By now Botuk was far from the Yirn, standing on marginally higher ground, looking at the entourage at a distance. As far as he knew, the Overseer was not the ultimate leader of the canyon, nor the most mighty. She was one out of many highly ranked acolytes, all powerful in their own right, that answered to a council of elders.

  Other than the basics, the ruling hierarchy was an enigma. Unofficially called downers, most lived segregated away in the lower caverns. Rarely leaving. A solid glass gate separated the upper and lower caverns, allowing members to practise their faith in peace. Remembering the wave of heat from his encounter with the failed acolyte, Botuk agreed that was for the best.

  A shudder went through him, the sight of the charred, melted face haunting his mind. That was the price of power, the price of reaching above your station. For the way to ascend into the faith was simple and available to everyone. Yet during his years as a collector, nobody had tried.

  Murmurs gradually picked up as the Overseer entered the enclosed tent, though the two acolytes standing guard outside its entrance cautioned anyone from speaking aloud.

  They spoke of rumours abound surrounding her transactions. Every six months without fail, she left the tent with a wooden crate. The contents of the crate and what she traded for it remained unknown — a secret for the downers, he presumed.

  The tent flaps parted as if a breeze had appeared from within, carrying with it the Overseer and the wooden crate, as expected. An acolyte at her side offered his hands in servitude, taking the object off her person.

  Time for the speech, thought Botuk, still tired from his earlier exertion.

  She walked to the dais, flanked by the two acolytes. Her gracile movements attracted attention, like a planned ritual before her speech. At the boundary, she disrobed, revealing a set of ceremonial armour.

  Crimson trimmed and polished to a mirror finish, the segmented armour gleamed in the light. Black leather laced the strips of bronze, granting its user flexibility and function. A plain yellow medallion imprinted onto the chest, showing the symbol of the Warden.

  She stepped onto the raised dais, bearing her figure for all to see. If before she looked authoritative, now she was divine. The awe-inspiring giant mirrors became just a background to her splendour. Under the direct sunlight, the armour shone with intensity. As if a piece of the Warden had fallen from the heavens and was revealing itself to the unworthy.

  Her ghostly skin turned golden, then her armour. The power of her faith and station was in full manifest. Yet no fire, no burning. She stood under the Warden’s gaze, unphased.

  However, her audience cannot say the same. Just the sight of her brought discomfort. Eyes glanced away, avoiding the glare. The figure now truly embodied the deity — in its glory and danger.

  “I invoke His blessing onto you, my siblings.” Between golden lips, her voice rang out, echoing far into adjacent caverns. “For His mercy gives us life.”

  “Every day we find strength in our struggle. We survive. Our flame endures.”

  “My people, for your contributions and your unending sacrifices. I thank you! The elders, thank you!” She clenched her palms.

  Previous speeches were brief, given as an obligation. Yet, with her pause, she didn’t step off the platform. No sign of her ending her speech. Unconsciously, Botuk’s head moved forward.

  “My blessed people, He has warned us. Sending forth His radiant heat, melting our constructs to awaken us from slumber,” she said, her tone sombre.

  “With his message, the elders have discovered a great evil. A creature so twisted, it only knows to kill, devour, and destroy.”

  Botuk felt lost. He had never witnessed such an alarm coming from the Overseer.

  “Brothers and sisters, it is time for another sacrifice. We will defeat this threat before it can extinguish our flame.”

  She continued. “But alone, I am powerless. I need our heroes to answer the call, to stand side by side against evil.”

  “I ask for our best people, our best collectors, the strong, the cunning, to come forward and protect your brethren!” She ended with a surge of emotion.

  Many cheered with budding patriotism while his head throbbed. To Botuk, the speech was overwhelming, and its consequences sank in. Yet applause replaced cheers, as the architect of his anxiety stepped down from the dais, refastening on her robe.

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw Foreman Modat striding towards him, pushing past the people in his path.

  “Botuk, my good boy! This is your opportunity.” He knew where this was going.

  “Foreman, I am humbled, but there are many others—”

  “Nonsense, my boy. You are the best! You are my best.” The Foreman laughed at his own joke. “I told everyone that you were the standard. Go make us proud!”

  Belching in laughter, he wrapped a hand around Botuk, bringing him close.

  He whispered. “Listen Botuk, every Foreman must recommend one collector and I’m choosing you. The better you perform, the better I appear to the Overseer.”

  “She is our superior, all of us. If you impress her, you'll be set for life,” said the Foreman, explaining to Botuk with patience.

  Botuk scrambled for an excuse. He wanted to explain. About his goals, dreams, and plans. But the man wouldn't understand his goals, nor sanction his plans. So his fear won out. Silence.

  Still seeing reluctance on his face, the Foreman gave his final blow. “If you can’t do it for me, do it for your brothers and sisters.” He paused. “Botuk, the danger is real. Their safety is in your hands.”

  Memories of Rita. Where is she? He is leaving her behind. To face the danger. Alone.

  “I accept,” said Botuk, quiet and solemn. Let me face the danger.

  “Good!” He gave a pat on Botuk’s back. “Now go, hero.” The Foreman nudged him towards the Overseer, where an assembly of collectors waited for him.

  Botuk stood at attention, facing the Overseer with the other volunteers. The piercing eyes of the Overseer looked at each of their faces. His paranoia acted up as he imagined her eyes staring at him longer than the others.

  The last person joined and stood next to Botuk, a tall, wide man that dwarfed the others. Ten collectors from ten groups. All at attention, ready.

  “My people,” she said, gesturing at the row. “Your heroes!”

  The people cheered, whistling into abandon. Botuk felt a hole forming in his chest, growing deeper every second.

  Deeper underground.

  We passed the last group of white-robes minutes ago. The ten of us, led by the Overseer and flanked by the acolytes. It was a straight path from the opening to the under caverns, but at this depth, numbers waned.

  Another gap in the wall passed by. If they were closer to the surface, these would be living-spaces lit by mirrors, but down here, there was none. The gap was dark, its fog swirling.

  Distracted, Botuk tripped before correcting himself. The cavern ground was rough and uneven, uncompacted by traffic. Though the light was still strong, beaming from the giant mirror at the opening. He was glad that the wide collector behind was shielding him. Minor victories.

  The glint of cut glass brought his attention to the front, past the Overseer. There, a wall of glass met his gaze, light reflecting off its surface.

  Botuk knew of the difference between the upper and lower caverns, and the glass gate that separated them, but still the construct astounded him. Neither a gate nor made of glass. It was a solid barrier, made of an unknown material, transparent but not whole — like a mound of white sapphire, each the size of a fist, compressed into the shape of a wall.

  How does enough light even get through that wall? thought Botuk, the light hitting the wall scattered off its imperfections, creating a celestial glow.

  The acolytes signalled us to stop. The Overseer stood at the base, her hands touching the wall, its hulking form dwarfing her. As before, her figure turned golden, then it spread to the wall.

  The radiance flowed like honey, from her epicentre to its corners, dyeing the cavern in golden light. A quake accompanied the glow. The wall shook and cracked, and a vertical seam materialised from thin air, splitting the wall in half.

  She gave a gentle push. Her golden palms commanded the gate open, and the construct obeyed, parting inwards by its unseen hinges.

  We followed the Overseer in as the gate closed behind us, its colour muting. The arm-length thick gate closed without noise.

  Botuk realised he was mistaken; the other side was brighter than he thought. Somehow, light passed through the gate, unintruded, but before he could investigate, a cough interrupted his train of thought. Now, with privacy secured, his escorts decided it was time to acknowledge the heroes.

  “This is the hall of our faith,” said the Overseer, her voice flat and uninterested.

  “Following this path will lead you to the main temple, where us acolytes refine our blessings and contemplate His vision.” Botuk looked ahead, seeing nothing but an empty cavern. The temple must be even further.

  “Only acolytes can enter the temple. Until you gain His blessing, I forbid you to go further — on threat of exile.”

  Now the alarm had set in. Blessings? None dared try.

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  “I can sense your concern, your fear. With what you know; with what we told you. I understand.” She gestured to one acolyte. “In truth, there is a secret to His blessing. Something we keep hidden from the uninitiated.”

  The acolyte handed her a crate. The exact crate she bought from the caravan.

  The hall expanded as we entered a clearing, a large underground cavity in their path. A raised platform stood at the centre. Similar to the dais at the opening, but without mirrors, and it was a fraction of the size.

  She stopped once she stepped onto the platform. Botuk and the rest stood below.

  “To be blessed by the Warden is to hold His power within you,” she said, crate in her hands.

  “This power is a burden. We use it to fend off evil, but in the wrong hands can bring chaos. Because of this, the Warden requires a test.”

  She looked up. “To step into His light and face judgement.”

  Her figure turned a pale gold — weak compared to before — and a rumbling came from above. A beam of sunlight fell onto the dais. The ceiling, now lit, revealed a tiny opening to the surface.

  On the dais, the light-print was also tiny, covering a quarter of the centre. Large enough for five people standing side by side, but not more. Nobody was in danger. The beam did not even hit the Overseer, and with the demonstration, the ceiling closed. Her skin returned a ghostly pale.

  “He blesses the worthy and burns the rest,” she said. “But He is merciful to us children. He allows the faithful to test our resolve.”

  She unlocked the wooden crate, revealing glowing crystals. It was like a pebble, small and smooth, but unlike a stone, it defied Botuk’s reality. For inside its surface, formed a raging fire, a twisting inferno confined.

  “This is his blessing shaped into form. A sacred seed.” Holding one between her fingers.

  “You will hold this gem to your heart and meditate. It will test your will and faith. Should you succeed, you may step into His light.” She looked at the ten collectors, all prospective acolytes.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Should you fail, the seed will reject you. It is painful, but you’ll survive.”

  The Overseer handed the crate to the acolyte that held it before. “There are meditation chambers nearby. I will return once ready. Be quick, for the evil creature has awakened.”

  Then she turned and walked deeper into the hall, where they only permitted acolytes to enter.

  Botuk was stunned. A bomb dropped on his lap. He just heard a secret of his world. A secret he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  The two acolytes stayed with them, gesturing to a cave in the sidewall — meditation chambers. They said not a word, and the ten collectors did the same. Their minds were still processing.

  This is too fast. This decision is life changing. thought Botuk. Can I refuse?

  Little did he notice, he was now in front of a cave. Bigger than his personal cave up top, but just as dim. The acolyte stared into him, his hand holding out a gem — a trapped inferno.

  Not wanting him to stare any longer, Botuk took the gem and entered the cave. The gem felt unlike any material he had ever encountered. Slightly warm in his hands, unnatural for such a raging fire. He wondered if it was an illusion, for it bore no weight. The temptation to drop the gem and see if it would shatter crossed his mind, but he resisted.

  Botuk held it to his eyes, lost in the swirling flame, wondering if this power was worth it. He saw himself in red-robes, bending heat and flame at his whims like the Overseer, imposing his will over others. His golden form, strolling carelessly under the sky.

  Then he saw his face, charred black, skin melted like the mirror beneath him. The pain was unbearable. Every ounce of his power fought to keep his body from falling apart. A crowd surrounded him, a barrier hiding their voices. They were mocking him, sneering, and cursing.

  A voice. Release the barrier. Make them feel your wrath. His voice.

  The hole in his chest felt deeper.

  The man in his memories cackled, his greying hair in cinders. Flames everywhere. His eyes met Botuk’s, reflecting flames, shutting in recognition.

  Botuk snapped out into a cold sweat, covering the gem in his fist. His heartbeat pounded with abandon, as he clutched his chest with both hands, trying to bring it to heel. His legs buckled, unwilling to stand any longer, leaving him sitting on the cave floor. Seconds passed and his breathing calmed. Slowly, the feeling of dread went away. And now he felt nothing. He felt wrong.

  The gem in his palm looked the same. In the panic, he had held it to his heart. Yet he felt nothing. No pain means no failure — he pondered — but what about success?

  Silence. No cries of pain or exclamations of victory. No sound at all came from the outside.

  Botuk stored the gem and peeked out, seeing nothing but an empty, narrow cavern. Perhaps his fellow collectors were still in meditation, their hearts in tune with the Warden’s blessing.

  Perhaps he had succeeded, and the visions were his sign; or perhaps, only he had failed.

  Cranking his head both ways, the acolytes were nowhere to be seen. He walked out of the meditation cave, back into the open cavern. No light came forth from the ceiling, and the dais was dark. The acolytes were missing. The Overseer hadn't returned.

  Alone, he stepped onto the dais, the action amusing him. He would be burnt alive if he did this at the opening, in the thin white robes that he was wearing.

  He placed the gem near his heart again, closing his eyes in meditation. Seconds passed, then minutes. Again, nothing. If the ceiling opened now and sunlight descended, he might attain power, or death.

  The risk weighed on Botuk’s mind. He turned to look at the way forward, where a temple stood, allowing entrance only to its members.

  Then he looked back at the hall from which he came, behind the crystalline gate, and to the opening where the caravan waited. His mind did not choose, but his feet started moving. First a saunter, then a stride, then eventually, he ran.

  Botuk made his choice. This was not his path. He did not want this power. All he wanted was to find that person. Evil creatures be damned.

  I’ll warn Rita, she can come with me, thought Botuk, clenching the gem. The caravan leader wanted sacred gems. A vat of water for his travel and this gem of fire for hers.

  He dashed along the path, maintaining his balance as he ran. Although the Overseer called this a hall, it was just like any cavern, rocky and uneven.

  In his haste, Botuk overlooked a crucial obstacle — the gate. Arm-length thick and refracting light from the other side. It was closed and there was no seam in sight.

  Botuk stored the gem in a sash as he palmed the wall, searching frantically for a joint. The wall was rugged, unsurprising from a construct made of crystal clear rocks. His palms uncovered countless bumps and crevices, but there was no order in its placement. No hidden trigger or method to pry the gate open. He couldn't even gain a solid grip.

  Near a corner, his nails bled as he scraped and dug away at some loose dirt, hoping to go under. Yet the deeper he dug, the more crystal he revealed. Now he panicked, his breath fast and shallow. The shawl around his head turned heavy, soaking his copious sweat.

  The Overseer must have returned by now, and his digging was not quiet. Botuk was running out of time.

  A final gambit. He punched and clawed at the wall, grunting at every strike, feeling his knuckles turned to mush. Nothing happened. The crystal gate glittered with indifference. The wall — immovable.

  Faint voices appeared behind him. The Overseer. The acolytes.

  Botuk struck harder and harder, ignoring the salty taste of sweat that dripped into his mouth. He had to escape. His goals…dreams…her, were waiting just behind this wall.

  The voice got louder, right at his back. An entity reached out their hand to catch him. To drag him back on the dais. He was unwilling, but the hand clutched his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

  His reflex kicked in and the swing intended for the wall realigned towards the back. A knock out could give him more time.

  Smack. She caught his fist, recoiling her body to absorb the blow. A pair of piercing brown eyes met Botuk’s. “Rita? How—”

  His friend shushed him, reaching over her other hand to cover his mouth. Adrenaline must have dampened his confusion since he listened.

  Voices. The faint voices were still there and getting louder.

  She clasped his hand and tugged him away from the prominent gate, bringing both of them to a dark crevice on the cavern wall. Botuk passed multiple such crevices on his way to the lower caverns, and more after. They were all unlit, dangerous.

  Yet Rita was dragging him into it, the darkness already engulfing half her body. Only stopping when Botuk anchored his feet to the ground. He did not refuse power just to die in darkness.

  She looked into his eyes and whispered. “Trust me.”

  More voices emerged. Multiple and closer.

  No more choices, no more time. He nodded, relenting.

  “Hold your breath, and whatever you do, don't let go,” she said, pulling both of them into darkness.

  The voices disappeared. The sound of their steps, the rustling of clothes, his heart beat, all gone — no, muffled — like hearing through ears stuffed with cotton. Disorienting couldn't explain his experience. Botuk saw nothing, as though blindfolded by thick fur. Up, down, left, right all switched, then shifted back. His sense of direction became twisted.

  Only the hand clasping Rita’s communicated the way forward. Though even that was under threat. The back of his hand began itching, scratching, peeling his fingers off one by one. His body felt a pull, not from a limb, but from everything, drawing him backwards. A muffled voice whispered directly in his brain, telling him to let go.

  What is this?

  As if realising his notice, the voice enveloped him, like ethereal arms placing him into an embrace. The pull magnified. Sharp claws poked and prodded his clasping hand, drawing blood, the liquid causing his hand to slip.

  Alarmed, Botuk clamped harder, not caring if he caused Rita pain. He willed his other hand, dangling behind, to reach for her arm. Muffled screeching followed. The pulling intensified as it yanked his other arm back. By now, Botuk felt his legs lifting off the ground, dragging behind. Yet he still advanced, moving forward through Rita’s locomotion.

  The claws now sunk into his hand, bringing more pain and more blood. Another slip. His hands were now clammy, with either sweat or blood.

  “Let go,” said Rita, her other hand clawing at his, trying to release her limb from his grasp. “It hurts!”

  Light came back, his ears no longer muffled. Botuk jolted his hand to his face, releasing Rita. No blood, no wounds, and no peril. He glanced back at the darkness, flinching away from its proximity. The fog masked his vision, but he could have sworn he saw a shadow.

  “Botuk.” He kept staring, searching for movement. “Botuk, focus on my voice!”

  Rita’s face showed concern. “Rita, what—what was that?” His voice was shaking.

  Her eyes drooped low, rubbing her sore hand far too quickly for relief.

  “It was the way out, our only way.”

  “Not that. You know what I meant,” he said. “The darkness, the pulling, my hand—something clawed at my hand!”

  “That was—is a gift. My gift. To you.” She stopped fidgeting. “We don’t have time, Botuk. They will keep chasing you.”

  He looked back at the fog, almost hearing the voices approaching. The Overseer will search for him, if not to punish him for his desertion, it will be for what he took. Botuk reached into his pocket, showing the gem to Rita.

  “Woah,” she exclaimed, her gaze drawn to the miniature inferno.

  “Rita, I’m leaving the canyon. There’s a ride waiting for me at the opening,” said Botuk.

  “Perfect. She is dangerous, Botuk. You need to leave. As far away as possible.”

  “We need to leave, Rita. Both of us.” He replied. “I can give you this gem. The caravan leader will take it as payment, and we’ll both escape.”

  Her mouth gaped, eyes wide in shock. “I—I can't. I have to stay.”

  “But—”

  “Go Botuk. My goals are right here.” She refused. “Leave before they find you.”

  His dome throbbed. Can he really leave her here? With the Overseer, with the evil creature. He wanted her safe.

  An idea popped into his head. “Then keep this,” he said, handing her the sacred gem. “Whenever it gets bad, lie low until the next caravan. Then exchange it for a ride.”

  She nodded. Her gaze was on the gem, mesmerised by the swirling flame.

  “Rita, this is goodbye,” said Botuk. “I don’t know if I’ll return, so this may be the last time we meet.”

  Her gaze left the gem, pocketing it. Seeing his sorrowful face, she went in for a hug, her supple arms tightly embracing him.

  “Goodbye Botuk, but not forever,” she said, taking on her characteristic smirk. She turned away, walking deeper into the cavern, her back lit by a mirror’s light.

  Cavern? Mirror? Only now he’d noticed.

  Botuk looked around, realising his location. Narrow passages with desiccated walls. Whatever Rita did, her gift, it led them to a familiar cavern. Even the dark crevice he came from looked familiar. It was the crack where Rita hid his toys long ago. He treaded forward, recognising the layout.

  Another left and I would be right back—Yes! His personal cave. Rita led him to where he needed to be.

  Botuk entered with haste, swiping away the sleeping mat and removing the cracked stone piece by piece. In the dim light, Botuk removed the clay vat from its hole. The weight of over 200 bowls of water strained his back.

  He wrapped the container with a layer of stained fabric, taken from his cave belongings, to secure the lid shut, then wobbled the water vat to his cave’s entrance.

  The sound of footsteps rushing came from the throughway. Just busy collectors or a search party, Botuk didn't know.

  Either way, he needed to hide. Botuk stuffed his feet-wrappings with dirt and pebbles, changing his gait. The shawl, he wrapped twice around his head, using a different wrapping technique to mask his identity.

  At the moment, it was a matter of getting to the opening — the caravan. Another group of footsteps rushed by. Now he was worried.

  Steady, he thought, as he hauled the vat by his arms. Less conspicuous than back-loading, he thinks.

  The weight on each step slowed him down. Though he had carried hot sand, he can surely carry this.

  More footsteps. Reality or paranoia.

  He entered the main throughway, face to face with the mirror. He looked around. Nothing. No ambush.

  Now is the chance. He strutted confidently. No red robes in sight.

  The vat felt heavy in Botuk's arms, but he could handle it, knowing that in just a few more minutes, he would be free.