A small young man sat on the front edge of the flat roof of the Blue Moon House, one of the city’s most prosperous beer and bread houses. It doubled up to offer nightly comforts to anyone with enough coin. He had no coin. The large building had two levels for his new master’s business, and the highest reserved as the owner’s private living quarters.

  He had to accept it. He was a slave now. An illegally sold debt slave.

  He hung his bruised, exposed legs over the side, letting his newly gifted sandals struggle to balance on his feet. Every swing of his legs risked their loss. He didn’t care.

  All around him, the vast city was slowly drowned in the dark red hue of the dying sun. As the goddess of the night began to weave her web over the sky, the first stars soon began to emerge. Unlike the goddess’s daily craft, a lone moon gazed down on the world just under the clouds.

  Maybe I should just jump.

  The residual pain still hummed at the back of his mind, another reminder that this land was his new prison.

  Nobody could stop me.

  He stared out across the sun-dyed city. Only one style of building dominated his vision: a series of yellow-red clay cubes. These strange buildings were what the city’s inhabitants called home. They were randomly scattered with amber-coloured sandstone paths winding chaotically between them.

  This maze of a city settled quietly into the end of another day as the last of the sun’s light began to fade and the queen of six-eight legs spun her starry veil. Other than the temples and the city’s central bazaar, no other buildings were permitted to shine bright lights after sunset. No one dared disobey.

  The people hanging from the city entrance made sure of that.

  His new owner had brought him here several hours ago. He was dropped off at the front door as the mysterious figure disappeared to his private office, leaving him to someone else for training. A quick tour of the large compound set an expectation to have memorised every brick, board, and loaf of bread between those four outer walls—four trapping walls.

  Finally free from the tour, he came up to the roof. He studied the people scurrying through the streets below, each footstep on the sandstone paths disturbing the loose sands and adding to the near-constant haze that seemed to crawl along the floor.

  Linen-clad men and women wore their dresses with exhausted expressions as they drifted toward whatever cube they called home. Ka’ had little doubt that each person he saw was part of the country’s most common caste – the faithful – making their way back from another long day of gruelling work.

  This was dusk in the city of the south, Ka’X?nen.

  A trickle of drunken patrons continued to exit the Blue Moon House, joining the sandy path and merging with the rest as they headed back to wherever they would sleep for the night. Most were sober enough to walk by themselves. But he caught a few drunkards supported, unable to take themselves home unaided.

  Ka' spotted one man lying unconscious on the side of the road. Dragged aside and abandoned by a passing stranger after collapsing in the middle of the street. He had seen that man drinking in the main hall earlier, stumbling out the main entrance, and lasting less than a dozen steps.

  Flashing memories overlapped with the image of the man sprawled across the floor, causing Ka’ to wince. His fingers squeezed tightly, as if the blade was still in his hand. The only comforting difference was that at least the drunk would wake up again. He felt sick. Despite the many things he encountered that day, the city was welcoming another day gone by.

  Since his earlier visit to the temple, the constant humming behind his head persisted. A dull distraction to his observations of the scenery. He had survived another day, and somehow, without any major issues.

  Should I jump?

  He doubted the head of security would appreciate the mess by the main doors below. The large man had stormed a group of troublemakers out of the garden with his weapon drawn, a sight surprising enough that Ka’ could hear the regular patrons gossiping about it from three levels up.

  He placed his hands against the edge and leaned forward. His sandals slipped lower, only held on by the curve of his toes. He felt that sensation ring louder at the back of his head, that he was only one push away from regaining control.

  One push and it would all be over.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted one of the house's girls sweeping along the stone path, the one that led to the public garden. The matron’s warning echoed over the pain: any girl who tries to sleep alone wouldn’t sleep at all. She was brushing the amber sands off the property and back to the main street, letting them rejoin the eternal fog that hid everyone’s feet.

  A thankless task that he did not doubt would need to be redone in the morning. Likely by him.

  Which one is she? Is it Tsa’e’ia or S?ma?

  He thought back to the servant girls he had met earlier that day. Most hadn’t bothered to meet the new servant, so he was only briefly introduced to a few. Though different, nearly all the girls made him uncomfortable. And remembering this language’s strange names was not a skill he possessed. Not that he knew what his skills were, or how many he actually had.

  He only had two days' worth of memories. Two horrible days.

  The girl looked up and waved at him with a large smile. He leaned back, barely returning the greeting.

  Then there were the many others he hadn’t met yet. Part of him still hoped he wouldn't, but he knew it would happen. He was now trapped here, and come dawn, he would have to work here until his master was repaid.

  Shiny bangles glittered on the girl’s arms as her dress sleeves fell to her shoulders. Her long brown hair danced behind her, her smile infectious enough to make his lips curl slightly as he waved back a little harder.

  The matron barked something sharp from inside the garden as the girl flinched before dropping her gaze and returning to work.

  The red sun was still slowly setting on the horizon, painting the sky with the last hues of its divine colours for the day – or so the temple seemed to claim. He wasn’t sure what divinity they were referencing; he hadn’t seen any. But he knew he didn’t trust the temple.

  Never. Not after what they did to me.

  As he sat there, his smile faded, and with it, his mood returned to its earlier calm.

  It was time to accept it.

  This was his life now.

  He didn’t know it yet, but this city marked the beginning of one of history’s most infamous sorcerers: the Sutran of Māra.

  “Hey! Ka’Tehmn! Food’s ready, come over here!” A loud voice broke the encroaching melancholy.

  He turned his head to see one of the two house servants, now three if he included himself, stirring a small clay pot over an open flame.

  His hand subconsciously raised to touch the strange brand behind his right ear. The same place where the temple scribe had burnt it into his skull earlier that day. The reddened skin still twitched on contact, despite several hours having passed.

  This was what allowed him to finally understand the language the people of this city were using. It was also the reason behind his fading resistance – a realisation that he was now property, literally burned into his flesh—twice.

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  “Coming Mnai’?t,” he called back. The brand on his tongue translated his words automatically into the nation’s language—the temple’s ‘gift’, the scribe had called it.

  One hundred thirty-eight men. Twenty-one visibly drunk, four unconscious, four dragged out by security.

  If each bought two drinks, that’s…414 coppers? How much does this place make?

  His eyebrows briefly lifted at the realization. The owner earned far more than he’d first assumed.

  Getting to his feet, he turned around, positioning his hand close to the dagger on his waist. The same one the owner had given him as a starting present; "in case you need it”. With his back to the street, he observed the other servant more closely. Brown, curly hair, dull linen clothes, barefooted, and yet unlike him - smiling.

  He had shadowed Mnai’?t all day, listening, learning, and trying to understand his fellow servant from the moment they met. They were very different people.

  After the head chef had declared the kitchen closed, Mnai’?t led him up to the highest roof of the compound, the central roof, to have dinner together. The last servant had disappeared before Ka' had realised, but Mnai’?t explained that it was common.

  He walked along the warm flat stone toward the pot at the rear of the roof. A distinct, unpleasant smell—burnt meat mixed with reheated beer—met him after a few steps.

  “Here, this is yours. We’re quite lucky, the head chef put extra meat in to celebrate you starting.” The brown-haired servant used a wooden ladle to scoop up some of the stew. Moving it into a wooden bowl before gesturing for him to take it.

  Ka’ looked at the smiling servant. A glance at the two small pieces of meat floating in the outstretched bowl, and the lack of meat in the near-empty pot, made it clear how “lucky” they actually were.

  I haven’t met the head chef yet. I hope the rumours aren’t true.

  “Thank you. And I’ve said, you can just call me Ka’ for short.” He dismissed his suspicions and let the smile reach his eyes as he spoke, hoping to seem genuine.

  He extended his hand for the bowl only to see it snatched away from him as he grabbed at empty air..

  “No! The priests always say that a name is sacred. To shorten it would anger the gods. As I said earlier, you must stop that, especially with those from the temple. They won't see it as kindness.”

  He cautiously handed the bowl over and let Ka’ take it before continuing, his expression returning from serious to its usual gentleness.

  “Besides, your name has such a nice meaning - The second vital spirit of the land. It sounds like the name of a scribe or priest.” The young servant’s smile grew wider at the mention of the second part – his tone gentle and full of reverence.

  Ka’ said nothing in reply. Only running his now-branded tongue along the back of his teeth at the mention of the temple. He silently nodded before accepting the bowl.

  How curious. So that was why he kept refusing me all day. Still, I don’t like this name, or why they called me that.

  Memories flashed past and disappeared; the village, the raiders, fire, the metallic smell of blood. He remembered what he did. His free hand touched his chest as he felt his heart beginning to beat louder against his chest. It was happening again. He focused on his breathing. In, out, in, out…

  Don’t break..

  Not wanting to reveal anything, Ka’ quickly sat on the ground. Mnai’?t joined him soon after as they ate together in silence. Once in his hand, the strong alcoholic scent invited him to indulge, to forget the day, and he did.

  The food, he realised, was lacking most flavours. Likely only a mixture of whatever food remained from earlier that day. Served with rind-filled bread, drowned in either watered-down ales or poorly-mixed wines.

  This was Servant's stew, an unpleasant combination of leftovers he would have to get used to eating every night from now on. Though he had a feeling the taste would be different each night, never better.

  At least it's better than starvation.

  Mild optimism did little for the flavour. Ka’ tried to distract himself from the unpleasant saltiness by thinking, a habit he hadn't stopped since his capture.

  Memories of the rough bread he had been given on the trip here argued with the scavenged scraps he vaguely recalled from the village. He couldn’t decide which was worse. His head began to ache the more he tried to remember the village. The pain grew louder. It shouted. It screamed.

  Think of something else.

  Scowling, he closed his eyes. He recalled the people he'd met earlier today. Which of them were friendly? Which of them were neutral? Who did he have to be careful of?

  Which of them would stop me if I tried to escape?

  Ka’ thought of the day’s events: the slave house, the temple, the scribe’s chamber…

  He felt his skull and tongue ache at the last memory.

  Finishing the last bite of solid food, he tilted the bowl to his lips. The alcoholic soup burnt on the way down. Mnai’?t mirrored him as the pair drank the remainders that weren't absorbed by the torn, coarse bread.

  Once the bowls were empty, they began to tidy up the rooftop fire and dinner items. Ka’ observed more than he assisted, still learning what each day would ask of him, and asking questions on what to do and expect. He lost count of how many questions he had asked, but he couldn’t stop the thought that tomorrow it would truly begin - His first day.

  “Tomorrow’s meal probably won't have meat in it. The head chef is usually stingy with meat - except on special occasions. So make sure you eat lots of dried dates at lunch to fill yourself up.”

  Perhaps uncomfortable with the silence, Mnai’?t offered a few pieces of advice as they worked – necessities for their continued survival in the house, as he jokingly put it. Ka’ didn’t laugh.

  They used a water jug they brought up earlier to clean the inside of the clay pot before throwing the mixture over the side into the rear garden. The pot, bowls, and tools would remain on the roof under cover till the following day.

  Once it was all clean, and everything was back where it belonged, Mnai’?t led Ka’ down a wooden ladder connecting the central roof to the roof of the right wing.

  This was the wing of the building where the girls slept and took clients - the owner’s additional stream of income, beyond selling food and drink in the main hall. Though he suspected they made far more money than he first believed.

  An old wooden hatch at the back of the right roof was the only way to re-enter the building – the same path they had taken when coming up. Climbing down the ladder, they entered the long corridor on the second level. Ka’ listened to the creak of the old wood as his weight pressed down against it. Mnai’?t’s hand gripped his ankle.

  “Keep quiet!” Mnai’?t’s voice left nothing for debate. Turning to a whisper, he continued.

  “The owner doesn’t like anyone to distract any of the girls’ customers. Had a man once demanded his coins back because people were talking outside the room. The owner made his intentions very clear; nobody got a meal for two days.”

  Ka’ silently listened to Mnai’?t’s warning, only nodding before carefully closing the hatch behind him.

  So, the owner punishes loss of money with starvation. Is that what he meant by “his kindness was contingent on them showing respect”?

  Interesting.

  Does he only punish for money issues? Would he punish me for doing anything else? Is there anything else I need to know about?

  They passed the girl’s rooms on the outer wall to his left, the mild grunting of twin-backed beasts slipping through the cracks in the door. Was the owner keeping track of which rooms were empty? What happened if a room went too long? Ka’ ran his fingers along the brand on his head.

  Passing another of the girls’ rooms, he flinched as he heard a man shout. Inside the room, the man called out another woman’s name as he berated her for some betrayal, shouting several slurs. He didn’t stop long enough to listen.

  Other than the owner’s office by the ladder, the right side was open to view the main hall below. Gazing over the thin banister as they passed, Ka' spotted the few remaining customers finishing their drinks before making their way towards the exit.

  Neither of them made any noise, letting the hall's drunken murmurs and the occasional moan from the girl's rooms cover the sound of their steps.

  Five of the girls should be in their rooms. So half the girls are busy each night? Is that normal, or busy? Quiet?

  The spiral stairway to the main hall was at the other end of the corridor. Mnai’?t led Ka’ around the right of the building to the private garden behind the building.

  This would be his new resting place, the servant's quarters.

  A small bungalow connected to the outer wall at the back of the property. The property had an animal pen in the rear left corner, and the matron’s private courtyard in the right corner. The bungalow separated the two, and a set of stone steps along its front led to its flat roof.

  Inside, Ka’ saw four large mounds acting as beds. He picked one of the two Mnai’?t said weren't in use, and watched Mnai’?t unroll a reed mat over the cold stone bedframe. He grabbed one of the spare mats from the corner and mimicked the servant.

  Mnai’?t watched, patient, occasionally offering advice.

  After picking up an armful of grass bedding from the corner, they spread it over their reed mats before lying down to sleep. Neither spoke nor made any noise.

  While Mnai’?t quickly fell asleep, Ka' did not.

  Unable to sleep, he let his mind wander back over the past few days—the village under the white tower, being sold at the slave house, the scribe’s smile as they hurt him. He shivered. The discomfort of it all was still not gone. Yet, despite all that, he now belonged to one of the city’s most prosperous beer and bread houses. His life would get better.

  Right?

  He turned to see Mnai’?t asleep.

  His thoughts ran rampant in the lightless silence. When the night finally bloomed in full, and only a handful in the city remained awake, his eyes began to grow heavy.

  And with the closing of his eyes, the memories came crashing back, beginning from his vision of the white tower - on the day his village burnt down.

  He dreamt of the day he killed a man.