The world had a pull the knight had never noticed. He felt as though he wore a suit of armor. Stranger still, the more he thought of it, the more he wanted it. He knew it wouldn’t help, but the idea of separation between himself and the world brought him a sliver of comfort while walking this accursed land.

  Over his shoulder, his sword rested. In his other hand, the lantern swayed under his tight grip. The ring it hung from squeaked with each gentle swing.

  It was louder than he liked.

  The boils on his right foot stung with each step and burned with each lift, forcing him into a limp that sent a growing ache into his lower back.

  There was no telling how long he’d been walking, but by the time he reached the bottom of the mountain, that oppressive night once again covered the world. His only guide was the hole above and the stars that burned within it.

  He’d heard stories of men who roamed the seas in things called boats, guided only by the stars.

  He’d never seen the sea, but he recalled the very notion of such boundless water frightening him as a boy. It filled his imagination with what wretched curses might have lurked below the surface.

  None, he had been told. Only fish.

  Surely that was no longer the case.

  An approaching rustle caught his attention. He froze, holding his lantern over his head and his sword out front. The sound came from his left, and he turned to face it.

  The speed at which it arrived nearly sent the knight falling over his own heels. When it stopped at the edge of the blue light, the wind it carried in its wake washed over him.

  In the dim light, it looked like a man whose head was twice the size it should have been. It smiled at him—drool, thick as mucus, sliding through gaps too large between too many teeth. Its wall-eyed stare pierced him, and he froze. Then, from the darkness beyond the light’s reach, a hand came into view.

  It looked wrong.

  Too many fingers.

  It beckoned him.

  Fear seized him, and he forced his body into motion. He walked toward the kingdom, ignoring the curse that lingered.

  For a time, it vanished into the darkness, only to reappear someplace else. Each appearance sent an involuntary flinch through the knight. He did not know what to make of the feeling at first, but as it continued it only served to frustrate him.

  Finally, when it last appeared, he thrust his blade into one of its eyes. It wailed, then whimpered, then growled, all before vanishing for good.

  He walked on, unabated.

  As darkness gave way to a thin gray dawn, the knight reached the edge of the kingdom, thankful to finally set foot on grass.

  Exhaustion rushed at him, using his relief as cover.

  He lumbered his weary body to the outer wall, stabbed his sword into the earth, and sat setting his lantern at his side. Blades of grass shifted under his palms and slid between his fingers. They were cool to the touch.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Part of him wanted to let the feeling hold him and lull him gently to sleep.

  With a deep breath and tired sigh, the knight stood, taking his sword and lantern with him as he walked the wall. It was taller than the one he’d known—likely thicker too. The gate was a sight all its own.

  Two pillars rose on either side, morphing into maidens who held swords aloft, their blades crossed. The iron gate stood open and inside was a large door. The door sat ajar, waiting for anyone to simply stroll in.

  He approached with caution but did not call out.

  Its scale—humbling.

  Its silence—hollowing.

  Inside, he stood in disbelief. Before him stretched a web of thoroughfares lined with homes and shops. There were no people busying themselves with life, nor lights to keep them warm.

  It was as barren as the world outside.

  Then he realized the wall was not an outer wall at all. It was the only wall. The kingdom had existed in this way before the world died and rose again—a rotten shell of itself. They’d not built a second wall.

  While unusual, it was of little importance.

  He surveyed the kingdom, but there was no clear line of sight leading to the center. Standing above it all, a stepped pentagonal tower spiraled up into a sharp spire. A wide road followed the wall, separating it from the city, but that was the only clear path.

  He made his way into the tangle of empty streets.

  Finally, he called out.

  “Is anyone there?” he asked to a vacuous nothing. “Anyone. I mean you no harm.”

  He carried on in this manner for a time longer than he cared to admit. His feet were sore, his body heavy with exhaustion, his stomach crying for food. From the size of the castle, he gathered he was halfway to the center.

  Beneath his feet, the stone felt warm, almost humming.

  He sought rest in the nearest home.

  Empty.

  No sign of struggle or hurry—just nothing. The table was set, and food long rotten sat dry and stale. Beyond it, a hearth sat cold and lifeless, bits of charred wood were all that remained—the only proof it had ever breathed warmth into this place.

  Hunger took hold, and the knight reached for a roll. Dried mold covered half, and it was hard as stone. Still, he held it by its clean end and ran it along his blade’s edge. The mold part fell away, leaving only the stale bread.

  He put his lips around it, working his tongue at the exposed, porous end. Slowly but surely, the bread softened. It broke into small parts as it dissolved. The texture was akin to wet sawdust, and the flavor little better.

  Three bites were all he could manage before he could no longer bear it. He tossed what remained in the empty hearth.

  He wandered the home until he found a bed. A thick layer of dust—a second layer of bedding.

  An uneasy feeling came over him. It started in the pit of his stomach and moved into his chest.

  This kingdom had no soul.

  He left—still weary, still hungry—and continued toward the castle.

  The deeper he ventured, the larger and more ornate the building became. Like the castle, they were geometric in form and awash in dulled colors he imagined were once as vibrant as the kingdom itself.

  One in particular caught his eye.

  Hexagonal pillars framed the entrance, and the door sat ajar. It was a blue door made of what appeared to be wood but was cold to the touch—the same as stone. He pushed it open the rest of the way to find it heavier than he expected.

  Inside, he found what looked to be a study, or a workshop, or possibly both. It had markedly less dust than the home he’d seen, and no food sat stale on the table.

  It was tidy.

  Books sat open on the table, and he couldn’t help but look. He leaned his sword against the table and lifted one of the books, closing it and turning it over in his hand. The title read: The Prevalence of Life and Death

  There was no author listed.

  Inside were journal entries, most of which spoke of things he could not understand—things perhaps a mage might.

  He understood grief for a dead son.

  Resentment and frustration with a silent god.

  And something he understood but could not explain: “Life is not a gift. Life is system and structure.”

  He fanned through to the middle.

  Mentions of soul binding brought his attention to his own sword, briefly.

  Further, the entries mentioned “echoes,” “reverberation,” and “life as catalyst for life”—a cycle, a fuel. All things he knew, but not in the context in which they were used.

  More entries made clear to him what had occurred. He read on in horror.

  To sacrifice a kingdom’s people to satisfy your own grief? The knight’s grip tightened around the journal. Heat built beneath his skin.

  This kingdom had not been abandoned; it had been used.

  Its people were not gone; they’d been stolen.

  Their souls put to work.

  But it was the last entry—the last line—that made him hurl the book against the wall.

  “I did not mean to take so many.”

  The book landed open.

  The knight turned away.

  The ground trembled.