He stepped out of the shaking shack that squeaked as he moved into the muddy streets. Around him, death walked with open eyes.
People moved, breathed, and even spoke—but their souls had long since been crushed. What remained were hollow shells, labouring for the rich.
Some smoked from chipped pipes. Others stabbed their arms with dull needles.
"Opium," muttered a voice beside him. "It's ruined more lives than it's numbed."
It was Louis, Remy's only real friend—not that he'd admit it. Louis was one of the few Drawers actively fighting for a way out.
Most people born in the lower realm are born into debt.
Because of famine, most of them had borrowed money from their lords, and due to being poor, they failed to pay it back; the interest would compound, turning into something unbearable generation by generation. They became poorer, inheriting poverty from their ancestors.
Louis, despite everything, remained cheerful. Though so much that others had taken to calling him "The Fool".
But he didn't mind, though.
"Let them laugh, only the foolish laugh at a fool." He would often say.
Before they were even born, both Remy's and Louis's fathers had once volunteered to become slaves to the lords for a steep reduction in family debt. It was because of that sacrifice, and every coin he and his mother scraped together, that Remy now stood just months away from freedom.
"Here it is, Remy on time as always," Louis said, stepping into a Zigord.
It was a metallic box-looking thing with steel bar windows.
The Nobles had created this contraption for their workers.
It was costly, sure, but very convenient since the fields were so far away. The Zigord was the only way they would make it on time.
They travelled for two hours aboard the Zigord.
The fields they reached were lush, sprawling... and poisonous. They were growing Poppy, the same drug draining the soul from their streets.
Without wasting any time, they got to work.
Time flew as they moved from row to row.
"You know, this would be way easier if they let us learn the Mystic as they do," a voice grumbled beside Remy as he pulled the weed near the flowers.
"Ha-ha, yeah, you are quite the dreamer, aren't you?" Remy laughed, still focused on his task. "You know full well they'd never let us touch the Mystic. People would run."
The Mystic—a supernatural force allowing feats of wonder. A human could create fire from nothing.
Move mountains.
Heal wounds.
The Church had schools dedicated to them; only free men were allowed to learn.
By noon, the sun blazed mercilessly. Sweat rolled down their backs, watering the cursed crops.
Most workers broke for lunch. Not Remy and Louis. They worked straight through—until the clock struck two.
As they rested, gulping water in the shade, something unusual happened.
A group of noblemen approached the fields.
They never entered these fields.
Leading them was a wide, gold-draped man: Saint Roseline.
Remy knew him all too well—he was the very man his family owed money to and his current employer. Despite everything, Remy didn't hate him. It was Roseline who had offered a job.
A path to freedom.
"Don't bother bowing," the Saint said, waving his hand. "I'm here seeking volunteers. I need men to work in my factory. I'll pay double your weekly wage for a single day's work." He said his voice shrill.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Double pay? In one day?
Unthinkable."
Ten men volunteered on the spot, eyes eager.
Louis turned to Remy.
"Are you really going to pass this up?"
Remy just stared ahead. "It all seems... too convenient, you know." He paused, tapping his feet against the ground. "What do they want us to do for that kind of money?"
"Come on, mate," Louis pressed. "Think about your mother. Doesn't she deserve a break? She's been working for…. Well, she's been working like, forever."
The words hit harder than Louis realised.
A fire lit under Remy's eyes, and he stepped forward.
Saint Roseline smiled. "Ohh, how wonderful this is brilliant." He smiled. "Now follow me."
He turned and waddled back to his transport. Behind him, a tiny servant with sunken eyes scurried like a shadow.
The men followed.
They travelled only a short while before towering brick buildings came into view. Smoke belched from their chimneys. The factory buzzed with a dense smell that prickled the air.
"Step inside. Someone will instruct you." The servant instructed.
The moment they stepped in, the stench of chemicals hit them. Steel clanged. Waves of heat pulsed through the hallways.
But for the promise of weeks' worth of shelins, it was worth it.
Remy's instincts screamed that things were too convenient, but he stuffed them down and began to work.
"If I can help my mother, I will risk anything.
Time moved quickly, and the shift passed uneventfully.
By 10 PM, they clocked out.
The small servant returned, "You all did such a wonderful job," he smiled, handing each worker a pouch.
They received them with wide smiles, then counted every coin.
Tears welled up in some eyes.
"We're truly grateful, sir," someone muttered, voice shaking.
Upon receiving his Remy approached the servant. "Excuse me!. Can I pay my family's debt now?"
"S-so-sorry. The master... he's out right now. Come back tomorrow." He spoke, his voice cracking a bit, his eyes darting around, not daring to meet Remy's gaze.
"Oh, okay," Remy spoke, turning away.
"Strange… where could he have gone?" He wondered. Still, they left happy, clutching the weight of their hope in cloth bags.
But hope is such a fragile thing.
They made their way back to the Zigord and rode their way home.
"What are you going to eat tonight? We have some money to spare, right?" They discussed their voices filled with Cheer.
They were halfway through their journey home when suddenly the cart jolted to a stop.
"INSPECTION! INSPECTION!" A voice boomed from outside.
"What!!? What inspection?" they murmured amongst themselves.
"There's been a robbery at Saint Roseline's manor!" the voice outside boomed.
Remy's blood turned to ice.
"Too convenient... I knew it was too convenient..."
"Should he run? Hide? Surrender?" his thoughts raced as—
Flashlights burst through the canvas walls.
"You there—with the straw mask. You look suspicious.
Come out." A rough Voice demanded.