The Black-Robed figure, stood alone beneath the shadow of the sacred stone, unmoving. His cloak fluttered gently in the wind, but his gaze remained fixed on the ancient script carved into the temple wall. His face was mostly hidden, veiled skin and one hollow, tired eye visible through the folds of darkness.
It was morning, and the village basked under a sun cloaked in thin clouds— just enough to soften its heat, but not its light. Life pulsed through the village sqaure like a heartbeat. Children laughed and chased one another with wild abandon, the sound of wooden wheels turning on carts, the clang of metal against anvils, and the hum of gossiping voices creating a melody of normalcy.
A child's shrill laughter suddenly pierced the marketplace.
"Stop him! He stole it!" One of the kids shouted.
A pack of children barreled through the crowd, dodging stalls and startled townsfolk. In front of them sprinted a boy, no older than ten, clenching something tightly in his fists. He was laughing– more from thrill than joy.
His bare feet slapped against the dirt road as he darted between vendors and pedestrians.
"Watch it, you little rats!" Roared the bangle-seller, nearly dropping a tray of delicate crystal bracelets. A few slipped to the ground and shattered into colourful shards. The children didn't stop.
Moments later, the blacksmith cursed as one of the kids narrowly avoided tripping into the forge.
"You'll burn to cinders, fool! Get out of here!" He shouted, waving his soot-blackened hammer.
The chase continued, a flurry of dust and shrieks and giggles. Finally, near the edge of the market, the lead boy twisted his body and gathered his strength– and ran headfirst into something solid.
Thud.
He tumbled backward and hit the ground hard, the stolen object– now revealed to be a bread roll– falling beside him. The other children halted immediately, panting and confused.
Slowly, the boy looked up from the ground... and froze.
Standing before him was the same black-cloaked figure from the temple.
The air around him felt colder somehow. The man hadn't moved, yet his presence seemed to press down on the children like a heavy fog. His visible eye, pale and dull as a dying ember, locked with the boy's. There was no anger in his expression– only emptiness. And in that silence, something inside the boy broke.
"I-I'm sorry," the boy stammered, trembling. "I didn't mean–"
The man knelt.
Not to punish him.
But to pick up the bread.
He handled it back to the child without a word.
The boy hesitated. His small, dirty hand reached forward to take it, and as their fingers brushed, a flicker–like a vision–flashed across his mind.
Flames. Screams. A shadow standing alone amidst a world drowning in chaos. He gasped and stumbled backward, nearly dropping the roll again.
The man stood up and walked past them, dissapearing into the crowd without a trace, leaving only silence in his wake.
One of the children finally whispered,
"Who was that?"
The boy didn't answer.
- - -
Far from the dusty roads of the marketplace, the palace of the village rose like a glided fortress. Maybe towers caught the sun like fire, and at the gate, a long line of peasants stood, silent and weary, baskets of grain, livestock, and trinkets at their feet. Soldiers with polished armours stood watchfully, spears resting lazily in their hands.
A man draped in foriegn robes approached the crowd, scanning the line with a furrowed brow. His skin was tanned from travel, his boots worn. He turned to an older man holding a sack of potatoes.
"What is this line for?" he asked.
The old man didn't look up. "Taxes."
"Taxes?" The outsider frowned. "So many people at once?"
"It's the cycle," the man replied bitterly.
"Every fortnight. If we don't pay, they'll take what they want. Or worse."
The outsider's expression shifted. "What could be worse?"
The old man finally met his eyes. "Ask a Tula."
The sound of chains clincking echoed faintly in the distance. Somewhere beyond the palace walls, the cries of a woman being dragged away cut through the morning air like a knife.
"Next!"
The guard's voice barked like a whip across the line of weary villagers. The long procession inched forward toward the towering gates of the palace, their arms heavy with the offerings, their eyes dulled by obligation. Sweat dripped down foreheads, pooling in the dust.