The sun stared at Botuk. The Warden and its oppressive gaze embodied the surface world, leaving no room for escape.

  Through his eye mesh, Botuk could only see the ground right in front of him. His eyes trained at his own shadow and the hard rock beneath. The slight uphill slope strained his frontal thighs.

  Behind him was a barren field. The ground was rocky, with specks of dust gently flying. Outcrops of bedrock marked the surface — smooth like weathered stone. A gentle headwind flowed sunwards, picking up more dust along the way. Eventually falling into the canyon, to be swept, then sifted.

  Though to a person walking through these lands, nothing hinted at the vast city beneath. There were no structures in sight, no farms or forests. The scenery left nothing to be desired, just a plastered field of brown.

  But to Botuk, the barren, featureless field was a source of pride. Pride in himself and pride in his profession. It was his effort, and the effort of all the collectors before him, that made this barren wasteland. A ring surrounding the canyon formed by scraping every bit of usable sand for decades on end.

  However, at this moment, with his weary thighs, he wished his predecessors hadn't been as successful. Since the further he hunted for sand, the further away he went. The friction of his heavy brown cloak, now carbonised black by the sun, resisted him with every step.

  Botuk had a time limit. Bits of charred fabric fell off the cloak, leaving a trail and exposing new brown layers to the corrosion.

  It took Botuk five minutes to reach the edge, traversing around increasingly jagged rock faces. His sweat accumulated under the poncho, and its humidity suffocated his every breath. A final crest of the hill and Botuk was the furthest he had ever gone.

  Taking a chance, he averted his gaze from his shadow and scanned ahead, squinting. The glare off the surface pierced his eyes like pointed daggers, piercing right through the mesh, evaporating the moisture from his cornea.

  An endless tapestry surrounded the wastelands, a quilt of gold and ochre accented by inky streams. The vibrant colours swapped and shifted to the mercy of fickle winds.

  Botuk wished he could stare longer, but with each second, he feared the image would irreversibly burn into his retina. Instead, his eyes chose a small, nondescript mound of sand right below him. The beautiful scene tucked away in his memories.

  He considered himself lucky. The others must have been tired or distracted, allowing him to climb the canyon first, which earned him first pick on his route. Like all first pickers, he chose windwards.

  Botuk could only imagine being last, having to suffer the sunwards path. There, the rays of sunlight directly shone onto the face. Their eyes kept shut, and no convenient shadow for relief. It was good that he was never that unlucky.

  A powerful gust flew over his poncho, its weight prevented it from fluttering. Bits of sand blew off the small mound, grains sticking into him. He needed to fill one vat. With just a shovel and twenty minutes per trip, it would take hours. Any other day, that was plenty, but today, he had a schedule to keep. The Overseer was surfacing for a reason, and he had to be there early.

  Botuk placed himself next to the small dune, being careful not to sink into the hot sand. The raised sandals worked wonders.

  His arms pushed the poncho from inside, causing the protective outfit to inflate over the side of the mound, aiming to envelop as much sand under its insulation. Each flap added more sand, but the more Botuk pushed, and the more charred flakes fell off. The action limited his time, but the collectors’ work was impossible otherwise.

  Under the stifling heat of direct sunlight, nothing mundane could have survived. Not Botuk, nor his basic shovel. This magical brown garment made his entire profession possible, sacrificing its layers to keep him alive.

  Thus, with a grunt, Botuk started shovelling. For each scoop that made contact, the heat slowly transferred from the sand to the iron shovel, cooling the grains just enough for Botuk’s grand innovation.

  “Argh!” yelled Botuk, biting his tongue in recoil. His already strained breathing seized as his innards and muscular organs screamed in displeasure.

  Willing himself through the pain, his hands continued. Only today, the words repeated in his mind like a mantra. Another shovel of sand moved towards his torso, its residual heat crinkling his chest hairs.

  Now with foresight, he released the hot sand into another makeshift pocket, made by precisely folding his white robes. A second grunt got out, though now between clenched teeth. The thin, airy fabric provided no barrier between the scalding sand and his raw skin. Even without looking, he felt it turning red.

  Despite that, this pain was worth the effort — shovelling more hot sand into his ad hoc pockets — a small sacrifice for the future.

  He felt his weight doubled, surely an exaggeration by his strained muscles. Though he lost count after the twentieth shovel of sand tied to his body. However, time was of the essence, and with a few more loads, he would succeed.

  It had been ten minutes since he caught the Warden’s gaze, spending half reaching the dunes. With the weight he now carried, Botuk had to return post-haste should he keep Foreman Modat’s new allotment.

  He sighed, still unsure of the true cause for this caution, nor if it would repeat. Taking a moment to relax, his calloused palms loosened the grip on the shovel. His arms were free, unburdened by sand, unlike the rest of his body. Now, he just hoped his legs could hold.

  The way back was simple. A trail of black — now grey — ash led the way. No exploration needed. In time, the ash would turn white, and like dust, scattering into the wind. Though for now, it lessened Botuk’s mental burden. His brain was on autopilot as every thought was used to walk straight. The bald head cocked low, eyes closed, blinking open only to check for ash.

  Botuk severely underestimated his speed while encumbered. Without the additional weight, he'd be standing at the canyon’s edge by now, tasting release.

  By now, he knew why other collectors didn’t invent his grand innovation earlier. They had imagination in plenty, they just weren’t stupid — or, in his case, desperate.

  For the last minute or two, his lungs heaved for every breath, fighting to inhale the humid air. Compared to the start, each step back was triple the effort. Botuk hoped the amount would be enough, because a second trip would push him to collapse.

  This close to the edge, some murmurs seeped through the thick fabric. In worry or in jest, he did not know. From the outside, Botuk conceded, his form might have looked funny. Like a snail wearing a shell of dirt. Though his lack of a blood trail must have stymied them from making a scene. The amount of sand he released, however, would definitely cause it.

  At the canyon, Botuk hung part of his poncho over the edge. Leaning his shovel against a leg as his hands unravelled his makeshift pockets. Sand flowed down by the clump-full, falling with a thud onto the platform below. His legs and back cheered for every clump fallen.

  Botuk took a few seconds to refocus, massaging his legs for relief. His entire body told him to lie down, though the rational part of his brain refused. This was not the place for relaxation. He needed to climb down before his limbs gave out.

  Amusingly, he contemplated just jumping. He was a hero, and he made a scene. Surely, some collector down there deemed his actions worthy enough to catch him.

  Maybe they were already down there, waiting to catch their hero. Botuk chuckled at the fantasy.

  It was just collecting sand. Other than his fellow collectors and his Foreman, he doubted anyone would care. Rita would like this story, he smiled with melancholy.

  Wasting enough time, he placed his feet over the edge and climbed down. Scaling up and down was easy. Carved rungs peppered the sides of the canyon, deep enough for Botuk to grip even over the thick poncho.

  Once he reached the overhang, Botuk just released his grip, landing on his feet with a thunk. The small breeze he created as he landed scattered the surrounding sand, earning him annoyed looks from the broom-wielders.

  Not exactly a hero's welcome, he mused, stopping his train of thought when he noticed Rita's influence creeping in.

  “Botuk, my good boy, handle your friend, then come speak to me,” said Foreman Modat. The cheerful tone was unnerving, causing a chill up his spine.

  The Foreman was referring to the other poncho-wearing collector walking towards him. Their heavy garment, newly replaced, burst aflame as they crossed into the sunlight.

  Even with his sore muscles, Botuk complied. The lowest rung was too high for any collector to jump to without a boost and, as the other collector on the dais, they expect him to do so.

  Botuk grunted with what he hoped was the last grunt of the day. His muscles were crying, and it was just his luck that he had to boost the heavy one.

  “Always knew you had it in you, Botuk.” The Foreman grinned.

  Botuk mumbled back, using the sound-insulating fabric to muffle his lack of speech. Unfortunately for him, he could not keep the poncho on for the entire conversation.

  “Good! I'll make sure everyone knows your dedication,” he said, laughing. “You know Botuk, from now on, you'll be the standard for the rest of them.”

  Black spots dotted his vision. To Botuk, this conversation could not end sooner.

  “Yes, thank you Foreman,” he replied, the words laced with faux-enthusiasm. In his heart, he apologised to his fellow collectors.

  “One vat full in less than 20 minutes. Incredible! Rehydrate and get ready to go again. A few more collections and we'll break every record.” He spoke faster than ever.

  Botuk's eyes almost bulged out of his skull. “I'm sorry Foreman, I have completed my task,” he replied mechanically. “And I cannot physically continue.”

  Foreman Modat frowned, then smiled thinly. “Of course, my boy, you deserve some rest.” His eyes left Botuk.

  “Now, because you've completed one trip, you can take one portion of water. Make it two because I'm generous.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Thank you for your generosity, Foreman.”

  A wave off was Botuk's signal to leave. He walked out of sight before collapsing on the hard ground. Eyes closed, too tired to care about the crowd judging him. They would ignore him soon enough.

  Lethargy filled his body, his mouth cracked and dried. Telltale signs of dehydration, and Botuk knew it. Everyone that lived by the grace of the Warden was intimately familiar with it.

  Passing out was not an option, but a brief rest couldn’t hurt.

  Two hours later.

  Botuk's body felt terrible, even worse than before. Now that the thrill of danger had passed, every bit of flesh oozed pain. If this was his body’s punishment for his reckless actions, he relented.

  What was worse was the swelling on his right temple, both the pain and the latent embarrassment. To be woken up by a piece of gravel dropping onto his dome was not an experience he bore repeating. No sleep, no matter how enticing, was worth that awkwardness.

  Despite that, agony could not damper his excitement. If his legs were more cooperative, he would pace back and forth. Even the almost pitch-black cave Botuk slept in seemed brighter, the desiccated walls more pristine.

  Footsteps hurriedly went by his abode. It was almost time to gather. With both hands, he pushed himself upright and took one last look at his sleeping mat, making sure nothing hinted at what was underneath.

  Although stealing was rare in this isolated community and punishments were harsh, Botuk could not help but be paranoid.

  Once again he looked under the mat, ensuring that any interloper would only see common cracked stone beneath. He had saved up for two years and no thief would stop him.

  He just hoped it would be enough.

  Satisfied, Botuk left for the opening, navigating through the mirrored caverns. Like before, the crowds were suffocating. The collectors, who usually worked in shifts, were now all assembling by order of the Overseer. Not to mention many others who had waited for this rare event, the Overseer being one of them.

  Previously, the Overseer had never surfaced, transmitting her orders through acolytes to the many foremen. However, for the last two years, the Overseer has been surfacing every six months. The reason was obvious — trade.

  Isolation was never the default for the people in this canyon. Wandering caravans braved the desert between communities, connecting them through trade. Though for reasons unknown, the caravans stopped arriving. This trade drought lasted for a decade, which caused a food crisis.

  Roles were re-prioritised. Many former collectors had to take up the plough, though food anxiety remained years later. Luckily, the caravan trade restarted two years ago, and roles returned to the status quo.

  The crowd waited in anticipation, chattering with their friends. The noise from them was deafening. If there was anyone calling out to him, Botuk could not hear it. Leaning his back to a wall, he tried to scan heads but could not spot Rita. The Overseer was also absent.

  An errant beat thumped across his chest, then a rhythm. Its crests and troughs mixed with the racket of the opening, waxing and waning with the beat. Awareness came first from the edges, spreading across the crowd as the thumps grew noticeable.

  Not long after, a buzz cut through the beat. Loose sand and dust lifted off the ground in a dance, taking on new life in its resonance. The humans fared worst, plugging their ears with fabric or their fingers.

  Thump. Louder.

  Conversations died down, all heads trained towards the dais. Through squinted eyes, some braved looking above, bearing the burning glare. The merchant caravan had arrived.

  Thump. Louder. Thump.

  Against the wall, it sounded like a hundred footsteps marching out of sync. The rumbles shook the ground and pieces of loose dirt fell off the overhang, covering the people below. Arguments erupted when a few collectors, unsteady on their feet, fell over.

  Silence.

  At the windward quadrant of the dais, the glare dimmed. Above, a triangular silhouette peeked over, casting a shadow on the canyon walls. The form hovered over the edge, watching the congregation beneath.

  Without warning, the buzzing restarted, stridulations bounced off the canyon walls in echoes, then crescendoed into a leap. For just a second, those who braved through squinted eyes caught sight of the beast.

  A triangular head burst forward, dragging along the rest of its elongated body. Its many legs tapered to a sharp point, widened as if preparing an embrace.

  The enormous beast landed on the dais with a gentle thump, cushioned by its many legs. Handily missing the four giant-grade mirrors on the dais with it. Now on an equal plane and under the illumination of sunlight, a Yirn beast wriggled to rest.

  Its long legs, accustomed to sand, failed to dig into the stone dais. The segments of its elongated body alternated between matte black and glossy ochre. Below it, spread an assortment of wide colourful fabrics, attached to the legs like a hammock.

  A Yirn was an inhabitant of the desert, the solitary creatures were cannibalistic in the wild. To the few collectors who have seen it, the elegant sight of a wild Yirn slithering between dunes was as rare as it was dangerous. Though, with the hammocks, any elegance evaporated.

  This was a merchant’s beast, after all. To them, swiftness was important, but storage was supreme. A Yirn was fast to raise and cheap to feed. Also, at adulthood, its wide upper carapace — used to protect its legs from other Yirn — now functioned as an enlarged parasol, protecting the cargo and merchants underneath.

  A shout came from under its head. “Give berth! Away! Give berth! Away!” the shrill man repeated ad nauseam. Such a weak shout coming from the enormous beast must have sounded jarring, as many did not bother to move.

  Only when the beast flexed its legs did they snap out of their reverie, shuffling away orderly. With a command, the beast stood from its brief rest, sliding its body off the dais and under the overhang. At full height, the creature was a quarter the height of the giant-grade mirrors next to it on the dais. Its length, however, was triple the width.

  Under the command of a Foreman, workers carrying stone beams encircled the Yirn, taking care to avoid its legs. Simultaneously, several caravanners, workers in their own rights, slid out from their hammocks and unfastened thick pieces of wood.

  Together they laboured away, joining stone pillars and wooden trusses in coordination. Within a few minutes, they built a frame sturdy enough to hold up the beast.

  Another command and the beast's legs relaxed, allowing the frame to take its sizable weight. The sight resembled a row of stalls, the frame as walls, and the long body of the Yirn as the roof. Once the workers covered the frames in fabric, the tent markets would be open for business.

  A thought went through Botuk's mind. For his transaction, he needed to barter directly with the caravan leader — the disembarking stocky man wrapped in gaudily embroidered ultramarine robes.

  That action would invite undue attention to his intentions and surprising wealth. Even now, Botuk wondered if he was better off announcing his intentions, using his connections to grease any rusted wheels.

  No, better to lie low. Botuk stopped second-guessing.

  The gawking died down as the chatter grew. He had precious minutes before the Overseer arrived, unsure if the caravan leader would give him the time of day once he met the bigger fish.

  Botuk slipped through the crowd. The caravan leader would be in the biggest tent, right under the Yirn’s head. Unlike the other stalls, this one was enclosed, its entrance flaps tied shut.

  Lines were being formed, orderly queues of customers waiting for their turn. Unsurprisingly, the stall selling fresh produce was the most popular, as it had been for the last three visits. Builders especially filled the wood stalls. They loved all wood as it broke their monotonous routine of stone and metal.

  The lines wrapped around the head, bunching up at the end, giving Botuk ample cover.

  A sash in the middle tied the tent flaps shut. Like curtain partitions, its purpose was to keep it closed rather than to prevent an entrance. With speed, Botuk could part the fabric and enter before it settled shut. He just needed a distraction.

  Rita, where are you? His brows furrowed. It would be much easier if she were here.

  He didn’t wait long before a sudden ear-splitting laugh came from a group of friends. The perpetrator quickly covered her mouth in embarrassment.

  Taking advantage, he crouched under the sash, falling onto his knees on the other side. Balance, while swiftly crouching, did not come naturally. Dusting himself off the ground, he came face to face with the end of a spear.

  A stocky man stared at Botuk. His eyes, blue like his robes, looked sunken in the soft light of the tent. A stiff arm held the ornate spear at the haft, anchoring the shaft by his armpits. The man’s gaudy robes contrast the seriousness on his face.

  “Speak,” said the man, gravel in his voice.

  The prepared words were stuck in Botuk’s throat. Pressure mounted on his shoulders, his body froze and mind turned fuzzy. To Botuk, it felt like a lucid dream, awake but without agency.

  The man pushed the spear tip onto Botuk’s chest, placing force to his sternum. Only then did Botuk awaken. The sensation was gone and his mind reoriented.

  “I seek to purchase travel,” replied Botuk, short and to the point. Whatever that was, he did not want it repeated because of vague words.

  “No, now leave.” The force on his chest grew, as though the man did not care if he pushed him out of the tent or impaled.

  “Wait! I can pay, name your price,” shouted Botuk, his hands grasping the spear for dear life.

  Scoff. “Sacred gems, all of it.”

  “What?” His mind blanked. Gems? They’re worthless, he thought. “Opals, diamonds. How many do you need?”

  As if expecting Botuk’s words, the man sneered. “You have nothing of value. I will say it again. Leave.”

  “I have water, a large vat worth!” he said through gritted teeth. “I don’t—just take me to the next canyon city.”

  The force on his chest disappeared as the man jerked the spear back, pulling Botuk onto the ground. With a swish of the wrist, the spear twirled, then lurched onto a large table, resting on two bronze mounts.

  Taking his eyes off Botuk, he strutted onto the lavish chair opposite the table. All along the tent arrayed trinkets of metal and leather, infusing the people inside with mercantile spirit. Stacks of parchment lined his table, covering the polished wooden surface. Once comfortable, he eyed Botuk and raised his brow, judging the weak collector that still sat on the floor.

  Not wanting to seem slow, Botuk stood. His experience with superiors showed as he stood at attention across the table — unspeaking unless spoken to.

  “Let me tell you. Other canyons are the same as yours. There is no escaping suffering.” The man dropped that train of thought as he saw Botuk’s unreactive face. “Then speak.”

  “I am searching for someone,” replied Botuk, hoping that level of detail would suffice.

  “What makes you think you’ll find them in the next canyon?”

  “I don’t, but it’s a start.”

  The stoic man rubbed his forehead in disbelief. He gazed over at the gilded spear in front of him, contemplating re-wielding it. “You are clearly lying to me, telling half-truths.”

  He stood, creaking the chair backwards, then leaned towards Botuk. A hand wiping non-existent dust off the spear. “Very well. The caravan could use more Yirn bait. I heard that live bait is more attractive.”

  “Yes, leader! Thank you, leader!”

  Exasperated, he sat back down. “I’m not your leader and you’re not my men. You are cargo.”

  He continued. “I expect you to report to me when the caravan leaves. If you are late, we will leave you behind. If you are lying about your water vat, there’ll be no need for bait, as I’ll feed you to my Yirn myself.”

  Botuk nodded with enthusiasm.

  “Now leave,” he said, a hand grabbing a ledger.

  Unsure whether to bow or salute, Botuk just turned around, exiting the same way he entered. A wave of sound hit him, the noise of the crowd roared as before. The stress of his negotiation with the caravan leader had blocked his senses. Only now did he realise that the tent's interior was acoustically isolated from the outside.

  Was it the stocky man or special fabric? Botuk pondered.

  Still, after years of wondering, he was one step closer to finding him.

  An old memory surfaced. A tall man, with greying hair, and skin white as paper. His large hands caressed Botuk’s face, palming over his eyes, the darkness putting him to sleep.

  In the memory, he awakened to find someone sleeping beside him. At that age, the figure resembled a boy, but it was Rita. The tall man was gone, like a figment of his imagination.

  Since young, Rita was the only family he knew. A friend turned sister. But she knew nothing of that tall man in his memories — of the familial connection he felt.

  To find that man, he would have to leave this canyon, to leave Rita. She would understand, but Botuk had to find her. To explain and to say goodbye.

  He scanned the crowd again, hoping her head would pop out between idle collectors, but to no avail. Frustrated, he wished the crowd to be silent so he could shout Rita’s name.

  Like magic, his wish was answered. Though he was no longer brave enough to cut the silence with a shout.

  From the sunward entrance, red robes emerged. Their faces were serious and unblemished, no scars in sight. This was not the failed acolyte he had seen at the melted mirror. These were full members of the faith. Standing tall were two acolytes of the Warden.

  Yet the woman between them dwarfed their presence. A slender figure wearing robes of black and crimson. Her straight hair, as crimson as her robes, framed her pale, ghostly face. With bloodshot eyes that stared into nothingness.

  The Overseer had arrived.