"Come on, man, this is the last time. Next time I'm coming first."
"Don't start that. If the boss finds out I let you in a fifth time without placing a bet first, I could lose my life… or my wife. Rules are rules: pick a player from the board, place your bet, then enter."
"Come on… I'll give you one of my cows."
"Keep it. I don't need your livestock."
A casually dressed man leaned against the narrow doorway of a long, low building, a small ledger tucked under his arm. He argued with a stocky bettor whose hair was a greasy black, pulled back into a short tail that caught the lamplight whenever he gestured. There was a tired, worried edge to the bettor's voice; he kept rubbing at his temple as if to erase the possibility of losing everything.
Around them, the street murmured, laughter, the clink of cups, the soft scrape of chairs. What struck me was how casually everyone spoke of "losing a head" or "losing a wife" as payment, an everyday cruelty that had become a custom here. The highest currency, apparently, was a wife.
On the wall beside the doorway, a few notices hung, blank white sheets against a black board when I saw them with that other kind of sight. No words caught me; only ghostly shapes and the dull geometry of paper.
"Tonight's draft night," the bookie said at last, voice bright with practiced charm. "No bets needed, just get in."
The bettor smiled like a man handed a reprieve. As he turned to step inside, the bookie's hand snapped out, catching the collar and jerking him back. "Just this once," the bookie barked, eyes hard. "Don't think you'll get another. I don't want trouble."
He let go, a small warning in his loosened grip. The bettor swallowed and slipped inside, shoulders hunched as if already counting the cost.
After the bettor disappeared inside, the bookie let his sleepy gaze settle on me.
"What do you want?" he asked, voice worn like a man who had seen too many troublemakers before dawn.
"I'm a player," I said, quiet, peering at the small ledger in his hand though its pages stayed opaque to my sight.
Immidiately realisation struck me. I knew it. There are rules to how I see as a blind person. And I haven't learned all of them yet, I thought, annoyed at the limits.
The bookie snorted, amusement flickering at the corner of his mouth. When he turned, he pressed a grubby hand to it and a dry chuckle escaped, small sounds that tugged my attention away from the book.
"You from the south?" he asked, tone souring as if the idea made him queasy. He didn't spit on me, but his disdain was easy enough to taste. "Go on in. Take the stairs on your right, someone'll guide you from there."
I stepped forward and he added behind me, his voice a whisper, tone darker now, like someone remembering a bruise: "Don't call yourself a player. Folks down there hate anyone from the south."
His expression stayed with me, small and cruel, like a bruise that won't fade. It made something in my chest shift. Curiosity sharpened; I wanted to probe, to poke at whatever nerve made him flinch.
The door opened into a room pretending to be a bar. It failed at the pretense. The place was oddly empty, colourful light cut into small circles on the floor, and the bass of the music thumped so deep it felt like a second heart. The air tasted of spilled wine and burned oil.
Everyone who came through the door moved with the same purpose: eyes locked forward, intent on the descent. The bar was a mask; below it was the real heart, an arena hidden from polite day. And the noise below kept pulling me closer to my goal.
To my right I found a narrow stairwell: a few steps up, then a tight turn, and down. I climbed without sound, the metal cool under my palms, and slipped beneath the surface where the city's light could not reach.
The moment I stepped onto the floor, a man in a clean black suit stood against the wall to my left. His posture was formal, unmoving. The instant his eyes met mine, he asked if I was a knight and whether I'd come for the draft.
I nodded once. Without another word, he gestured for me to follow.
He led me through a dim stone corridor that turned left, then right, before stretching into a long, narrow path. The walls were slick with damp, and the air carried the weight of something old, like the breath of a dungeon.
Every echo of our footsteps sounded too sharp, too deliberate, as though the stone itself were listening. At any moment, one might expect a trap to spring.
As I followed him, I reached out mentally to Light. The connection snapped open, and at once I heard him panting hard, breath hitting my mind like wind against glass.
[What are you doing?] I asked, irritation slipping into my voice.
Light flinched at the sound of me. His breath caught, and a moment passed before he spoke again, voice low and trembling.
[Master Isolde… I'm coming to you.]
I frowned but said nothing, waiting for him to give me a reason as to why he wants to come to me.
Then his words came out all at once, tumbling, and nervous.
[Master Isolde, can you hear me?] His voice cracked between breaths. [I completed the task, but… I may have unintentionly burned some of the white-signed houses. The fire...] he stopped for a moment to take a breathe... [it's spreading fast. People trapped inside the red-signed houses aren't burning, but they can't escape either. Even the ones trying to extinguish it… they look lost, totally confused of the fire.]
He spoke like a man trying to explain a sin before punishment came. His words spilled out, clumsy and afraid.
And for a long moment, I said nothing at all.
Outside, the chaos was far beyond what Light's words could convey. Smoke rolled through the streets in thick waves, painting the air black and red. Sirens screamed somewhere in the distance, blending with the cries of people scrambling to save their belongings. The flames devoured everything, bright and merciless; no one could get in or out.
Inside one of the houses marked with a red sign, a man in his fifties sat at a long dining table. His face was weathered, his hair streaked with silver, but his expression was calm, almost detached. Around him sat his family: three sons, two daughters, and his wife.
The flames had already crept in through the windows, licking the walls, devouring curtains and frames. Heat shimmered across their skin, burning it raw, yet none of them screamed. The pain came quick and silent, too swift to resist.
The man's eyes stayed closed, his hands folded over his chest as though in prayer.
"You shouldn't look at me that way," he said, voice steady, eyes still shut.
His wife's voice trembled as she glanced at their daughters. "Shouldn't we at least get the children outside?"
The firelight painted them all in gold and crimson. The room groaned as the ceiling beams began to crack.
The children didn't move. The eldest, a boy in his early twenties, sat rigid, jaw clenched. The youngest, a girl barely ten, clutched her mother's arm, her eyes wide not with fear, but with something different: understanding.
The man shook his head slowly. "There are people outside. If any of us were to leave this house alive, it would draw suspicion." His voice was calm, but each word weighed heavy. "This isn't any normal fire. It's meant for beings like us. If we reveal that we exist here, it'll put others of our kind in danger. Humans will grow suspicious… and they'll start hunting us down."
As the flames crawled higher, the heat began to strip away their façades. Beneath the peeling skin, faint streaks of light shimmered, revealing surfaces that were not human at all, skin that glowed faintly like molten glass.
The man turned his gaze toward his youngest daughter his eyes softening. Sadness in his tone trembled as he spoke again.
"The only choice we have is to let this fire burn us until it dies out on its own. You can see for yourselves, it can't be put out. The one who lit it knew exactly what they were doing and who they were aiming."
The woman said nothing. Her eyes glistened as she pulled their youngest closer to her chest. The children, one by one, met their father's gaze and nodded. Acceptance moved through them like a quiet wind.
"Whatever you decide, Dad, we're with you," said one of the sons, his voice steady but his smile trembling. "If our kind must live on unnoticed by these people, then let us be the sacrifice for that."
The eldest son looked down at his hand, the silver ring on his finger catching the glow of the fire. His thoughts drifted to his wife wherever she might be and a silent wish that she would remain untouched by this fate.
They sat together in silence. The elder daughter lifted her spoon and took one last bite of food, chewing slowly, as if pretending this was just another evening meal. Their faces glowed in the light, serene as martyrs who had already made peace with their end.
Only the woman's eyes betrayed unrest. She held her daughter tighter, the child's small hand gripping her sleeve as she held herself from crying, tears clinging to her lashes. Deep down, the mother still couldn't accept it, not fully. But she knew this fire was not just an accident; it was a message, a warning.
And somewhere beyond the burning walls, she knew this was only the beginning.
[Master Isolde! I just saw something unbelievably terrifying you won't believe it.]
There was a flicker of hope in his voice, fragile but bright, like a spark reaching for air. He thought, just maybe I would praise him. Or call him back to me.
[Shut up. And don't come to me.]
The words tore through him. Whatever small joy had started to form inside him shattered instantly.
Light drifted above the burning streets, smoke curling around him until his outline began to fade into it. The flames painted his body in gold and crimson but he didn't even notice how close they licked to him, how easily they could consume him too. For the first time, he didn't seem to care.
Master Isolde… did I mess up somewhere?
A single tear slipped down his cheek, cutting a pale line through the ash. Below, people screamed, roofs collapsed, and the red-signed houses burned brighter than the rest. He stared at them with a sorrow that made him look almost human, eyes soft, expression hollow.
Master Isolde has always been my strength but also my weakness, he thought, voice trembling within himself. In every life, I've known him for what he is; evil, and has always been proud of it. He finds joy in pain of others, and yet… I've never hated him. Not once.
He blinked slowly, eyes reflecting the flames below.
They say even an evil man has a soft spot for someone. For him, that someone has always been me too. Master Isolde has never treated me cruelly, not to the point it would truly hurt. But now…
He pressed a hand against his chest as if to still it. Now it feels like my heart is crumbling. Like I've failed him. Like he's finally… disappointed in me.
The wind shifted, pulling the smoke upward. But Light stayed there, suspended between the screams below and the silence of the sky, his tears vanishing into the heat.