----------"The darkness of the hole blinds even the most brightest sun" - Carl Osteld, The first Diver----------
Dawn in the First Ring was different than anywhere else in Orrhollow.
The morning light was thin, filtered through the smoke of cook-fires and the haze of spores that drifted up from the Hole. The light seemed to streak in like long tubes extending from the Upper Rings. The air always smelled of ash - old, bitter and grey clinging to skin and hair so that even when you washed in the brackish wells, the taste never left your tongue.
Jalen moved with the crowd, basket empty on his shoulder. Today was tithe-day. The priests of the Hollow demanded offerings from the lowest rings once every cycle. Coins, food, or, most often, spores. Those who had nothing to give were punished, sometimes whipped in the square, sometimes dragged away.
The temple bells clanged, heavy and slow, summoning the people.
The temple itself loomed at the center of the First Ring - a block of black stone carved with images of the abyss swallowing men and beasts. Its doors were twice the height of a man, plated in iron, and always open to reveal the darkness inside. There was nothing but a large well made of black stone within it - symbolizing the hole. It was guarded by four monstrous stone figures - resembling the monsters that broke from the hole once in a while.
Jalen hated the place.
Inside, the priests burned incense on the altar that made his head spin, claiming it calmed the Hole's breath. They wore white masks with hollow eyes, their voices were metallic distorted by magic, so that no one could tell which man was speaking. To Jalen, they sounded like echoes from the abyss itself.
He joined the line that snaked toward the steps, clutching his basket. He had only a small handful of spores to give today. Most he'd sold already for bread. He prayed it would be enough to keep the priests' eyes from him.
"Move, rat."
The shove came from behind. Jalen stumbled but kept his grip on the basket. He didn't need to look to know who it was - Darrin, the butcher's son. Twice Jalen's size, with arms like slabs of meat and a face always twisted in cruelty.
Darrin laughed, loud enough for others to hear. "Look at him, clutching his scraps. Thinks that the gods will take pity on him for a pinch of spore."
A few people chuckled nervously. No one dared intervene. Jalen kept his head down. He had learned long ago that answering only made it worse.
But Darrin wasn't finished. He lunged, snatched the basket from Jalen's hands, and dumped the spores into his own pouch. The glowing spores spilled down his legs, clinging to his greasy pants like stars.
"Consider it charity," Darrin sneered. "The priests prefer offerings from those who matter."
Jalen's fists clenched, his storm-grey eyes flashing. He wanted to fight. To claw the spores back. But one look at the butcher's bulk reminded him how it would end - with him broken on the stones amongst the amused crowd.
So he swallowed the rage, as he always did.
When his turn came at the temple steps, he had nothing to give.
The priest's masked face tilted toward him. The hollow eyes seemed to peer into his bones.
"No tithe?" The voice echoed, deep and metallic.
Jalen shook his head. "I--I had spores, but they were taken."
"Lies," the priest intoned. "No one steals during the tithe. The abyss hears all lies rat."
The guards seized him before he could protest, dragging him aside. The whipmaster was already there, a thick-armed man with a long coil of leather in hand. The crowd shifted uneasily, some averting their eyes, others watching on with grim fascination.
Jalen's chest tightened. He had been whipped before. The pain was sharp, but worse was the humiliation, being laid bare, beaten while the people of the hole watched.
"Wait." A voice cut through the murmur. Jalen twisted his head.
Kaelith stood a few steps away, her staff in hand, her amber eyes burning beneath her hood.
"He speaks truth," she said coolly. "I saw the boy's spores taken by another. If you doubt me, doubt the Academy."
A ripple of unease moved through the crowd. Even the white masked priests thought twice before contradicting the Academy. The masked priest tilted his head, considering. At last, he raised a hand.
"Release him."
The guards obeyed reluctantly, shoving Jalen aside. The whipmaster looked downcast. His back throbbed where their fingers had dug into him, but the whip had not fallen.
Kaelith moved closer, her voice low enough that only he heard. "You need to stop letting yourself be the prey."
Jalen's cheeks burned. "What was I supposed to do? Fight him? He'd crush me."
Her gaze lingered on him, measuring. "Then you must learn not to fight like prey."
Before he could answer, she was gone, striding into the parting crowd with the certainty of someone untouchable.
That evening, Jalen walked the alleys of the First Ring, basket still empty. He would go hungry tonight. He told himself it was nothing new. Hunger had been his companion since childhood.
Yet Kaelith's words clung to him. Stop letting yourself be their prey. Stop fighting like prey.
He hated that she had spoken them aloud, hated that they stung because they were true. He was thin, small, scarred, always on the defensive. Even the Hole's whispers seemed to remind him of it - not a comfort, but a call, urging him to be something else, something more than prey.
He passed the butcher's stall, its canopy lit by a smoking torch. Darrin stood there, laughing with friends, a pouch of glowing spores at his belt. Jalen's jaw tightened.
For a moment, he imagined snatching the pouch, imagined plunging a shard of broken stone into Darrin's thick hand if he tried to stop him. The thought frightened him - not because it was violent, but because it felt good.
The Hole's whispers stirred faintly in his mind, almost approving.
He walked on suppressing the thoughts, fists clenched.
That night, as he lay on the cracked floor of his dwelling, a dilapidated hovel, Jalen could not sleep. The Hole's breath was strong, the wind rattling loose boards and carrying whispers that rose and fell like waves.
He closed his eyes.
Child of the Hollow… you are seen.
The voice did not come from outside. It was inside, deep and resonant, as though the abyss itself was using his bones as a drum.
Jalen curled tighter against himself, heart hammering. The cold of the ground started creeping into his body. He did not want to be seen. He wanted to disappear, to fade into the crowd. But the Hole would not let him.
Not prey. Never prey.
His storm-grey eyes opened wide in the darkness.
And for the first time, Jalen wondered if the Hole had saved him that morning not because Kaelith spoke - but because it wanted him alive.
It was an absurd thought, but he felt it was right.