The cough was a wet, ragged sound, tearing through the thin walls of their hut like a blade through worn sackcloth. Tama flinched, his hand freezing where he was trying to coax a few miserable embers back to life in the hearth. He didn't need to look; the sound was etched into his bones, a constant, painful reminder of the sickness devouring his mother from the inside out.
Another spasm of coughing, weaker this time, followed by a low moan. Hope, a fragile butterfly, fluttered and died in his chest. She wasn't getting better.
He rose, his lanky eighteen-year-old frame unfolding with a weariness that didn't belong to youth. The single room of their dwelling was small, barely furnished with two straw pallets, a rickety table, and a few clay pots. Dust motes danced in the slivers of grey light that pierced the gloom through cracks in the wooden shutters. It was perpetually dim, perpetually cold, a fitting reflection of their dwindling prospects.
His mother lay on the pallet furthest from the door, a small, frail shape beneath a threadbare blanket. Her breathing was shallow, each inhale a struggle. Her skin, once rosy, now had a waxy, translucent quality, stretched taut over her cheekbones. Her thick brown hair, so like his own, lay lank and sweat-dampened against the stained straw.
Tama knelt beside her, gently brushing a stray strand from her forehead. Her eyes, when they fluttered open, were clouded with fever and a deep, soul-crushing exhaustion. A faint smile touched her cracked lips.
"Tama... my boy..." Her voice was a whisper, barely audible.
"I'm here, Mama," he said softly, his own voice thick with unshed tears. He took her hand; it was cold, despite the fever that radiated from her. "Try to rest."
Rest. As if rest could cure the wasting sickness that had taken root in her lungs, the sickness that the village elder, with her herbs and poultices, could only soothe, not banish. For a true physician, for the potent medicines that might actually work… that required coin. Lots of it. More than Tama had ever seen in his life.
They lived on the desolate fringe of Baron Volgoth's domain, a place where the shadow of Greed fell long and dark. Here, everything had a price, usually an exorbitant one. A physician's visit alone was a minor fortune. The remedies they prescribed? Enough to beggar a family for generations, assuming you even had anything left to be beggared with. They had nothing. Each day was a scramble for enough scraps to make a watery stew, let alone save for a miracle.
His mother coughed again, a dry, rasping sound this time, and a fleck of crimson appeared at the corner of her lips.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Tama. He wiped it away with the edge of his sleeve, his hand trembling.
"Don't try to talk, Mama."
Her eyes searched his, filled with a knowing sorrow that tore at him. She knew. They both knew. Time was running out, slipping through their fingers like fine sand.
He stayed with her until her breathing evened out into the shallow rhythm of a fitful sleep. The sight of her, so vulnerable, so diminished, fueled a desperate resolve in him. He couldn't just sit here and watch her fade away. He wouldn't.
Quietly, he rose and pulled his most worn, yet still serviceable, tunic over his head. His thick, fluffy brown hair, perpetually unruly, fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back impatiently. His reflection in a murky puddle by the door showed a youth with a face perhaps a touch too pretty for a boy, features slender and almost androgynous, but his eyes – ordinary brown now, though often mistaken for being intense – were shadowed with worry. He ignored the gnawing emptiness in his stomach; there was no food to spare.
He had to do something. Anything.
The town. It was their only chance.
The local market town, a grimy, bustling carbuncle on the edge of Volgoth's vast Undervaults, was a few hours' walk. It was a place of grasping hands and sly whispers, where hope was sold by the thimbleful and desperation was a currency all its own. But it was also the only place he might find work, any kind of work that paid enough, quickly enough.
He slipped out of the hut, the morning air cold against his skin. The village was already stirring, the scent of woodsmoke and meagre breakfasts doing little to lift the oppressive quiet that always seemed to hang over their impoverished cluster of dwellings. He didn't stop to talk to anyone, didn't want to see the pity in their eyes, or worse, their tired resignation.
The walk to town was a blur of dust and grim determination. The landscape itself seemed leached of color, reflecting the scarcity that defined their lives. Twisted, stunted trees clawed at a sky the color of a bruise. The road was little more than a rutted track, and the few other travelers he passed had the same gaunt, haunted look as the land itself. This was life under the King of Greed – a slow, grinding erosion of spirit.
As he neared the town, the sounds grew: the distant clang of a smithy, the braying of a overburdened donkey, the murmur of many voices. The air grew thicker, tinged with the smells of unwashed bodies, cheap ale, and something acrid and metallic that seemed to seep from the very ground – the breath of the Undervaults, perhaps.
The town proper was a chaotic sprawl of leaning buildings, muddy laneways, and makeshift stalls. People scurried with a nervous energy, their faces etched with the constant anxiety of survival. Enforcers in Volgoth's drab livery, their expressions bored and brutal, patrolled the main thoroughfares, their presence a constant reminder of who held the reins.
Tama swallowed, his throat dry. He wasn't a stranger to hardship, but the sheer, concentrated avarice of this place always set his teeth on edge. He started his search at the market square, a churning morass of vendors hawking everything from withered vegetables to rusty tools.
"Work? You got skills, boy?" a burly merchant with eyes like polished pebbles grunted, barely looking up from counting a stack of tarnished coins.
"I can lift, I can carry. I learn fast," Tama said, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.
The merchant snorted. "So can a hundred others. Cheaper. Move along."
It was the same story everywhere. A few scornful glances, a couple of outright dismissals. One stallholder offered him a pittance to muck out animal pens for a full day – the pay wouldn't even buy a loaf of stale bread. Another, a greasy man with a leer, looked him up and down in a way that made Tama's skin crawl, muttering something about "pretty boys" finding other ways to earn coin. Tama fled, shame and anger burning in his gut. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Not for his mother, not for anything.
The sun, a pale disc in the hazy sky, began its slow descent. Hope was dwindling, replaced by a cold dread. His mother needed him. He was failing her.
He found himself near the edge of the square, by a battered public notice board plastered with faded decrees, warnings, and the occasional plea for a lost goat. Most were grimy and ignored. His gaze drifted over them, half-heartedly, his mind already turning to the bleak walk home, to facing his mother with empty hands and a heavier heart.
Then, one poster caught his eye. It was older than the others, the parchment yellowed and frayed at the edges, yet the ink was stark, almost defiant. It was larger too, dominating a section of the board. He'd seen it before, or ones like it, re-posted periodically. They were grim local legends, mostly.
MASSIVE REWARD! GOLD! the headline screamed in bold, imposing letters.
Below it, smaller text detailed the offer. Baron Volgoth himself promised a fortune – "enough to save a hundred families," it boasted – to any soul brave enough, or perhaps foolish enough, to survive the "Crimson Trials." The trials were to be undertaken within a place called the "Chamber of Seven Temptations," an ancient, cave-like ruin discovered generations ago on the very edge of Volgoth's territory.
Tama's breath caught in his throat. He'd heard the whispers, of course. Everyone had. The Crimson Trials were a death sentence. Many had entered, drawn by the lure of unimaginable wealth.
None had ever returned.
The rumors said they were turned to stone, petrified monuments to their folly, their fates forever sealed within that cursed chamber.
He stared at the poster, the bold letters seeming to pulse before his eyes. The sheer amount of gold promised… it was staggering. More than enough for the best physicians, the rarest medicines. Enough to give his mother a fighting chance, to snatch her back from the brink.
But the cost…
The image of his mother's face, pale and drawn, rose in his mind. The sound of her ragged breathing. The fleck of crimson on her lips.
Desperation was a powerful tide. It could drown caution, extinguish fear, and leave only a single, burning point of need.
His hand drifted towards the poster, fingers tracing the stark words. The cheap parchment felt rough beneath his touch, a stark contrast to the glittering promise it held.
A cold wind whipped through the square, rustling the poster, making it seem as if the words themselves were whispering to him, a siren song of deadly hope.
The alternative was unthinkable: to return home, empty-handed, and watch his mother die.
The Crimson Trials.
Could he? Dare he?
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, chilling silence that seemed to envelop him. The noise of the market faded, the faces of the crowd blurred. There was only the poster, and the impossible, terrifying choice it represented.