He rubbed the amulets around his neck, a small comfort against unseen forces pressing in.
"Horsey, are you still there?" Swinebroth called nervously.
"Of course I am. Now throw down the rope."
It took Swinebroth a great deal of hesitation, but the rope eventually tumbled into the hole with a dull thud. Horsey grabbed it, his hands raw against the coarse fibers. The rope burned in his palms as he climbed, every muscle protesting with the effort. He was getting old, and there was too little time left.
Swinebroth stepped back, giving Horsey room to compose himself above ground.
"I think the ring is cursed," the boy muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You do not understand business, boy," Horsey snapped, though his voice lacked its usual fire. He held one ring to the sky, watching it glint in the dying light. The sun was low now, casting long, eerie shadows that stretched across the land, pulling everything into a shuddering twilight. "What a beauty. Were my reason more fragile, I would have nestled it in the socket of my own eye."
Swinebroth's eyes widened as he caught sight of other rings hidden beneath Horsey's sleeve. Each one was etched with strange symbols—tokens, he realized, likely belonging to the other ministers.
"You stole their rings too?" Swinebroth asked, his voice thick with disbelief.
Horsey shot him an indignant look. "Would I leave money in the dirt?"
He settled himself upon the weathered rock, inspecting the rest of the treasures he had pilfered. The night crept ever closer, but Horsey paid it little mind, for his thoughts were ensnared by what fortunes the rings might bring. Whether it was the promise of riches or the curse of the dead, that remained a mystery. But he had taken them. They were his.
Swinebroth could say nothing. His gaze merely lingered on the darkening hole.
The boy fumbled with his hands. "This feels wrong…I do not like it."
"No use dwelling on the feeling. In a place like this, every man is left to fend for himself. They work us to the bone in return for meager scraps."
Swinebroth shuffled beside him, exhaustion tugging at his eyelids. "Do we have to return tomorrow?"
Horsey stiffened, his gaze turning sharp.
"Not a single soul here stands to lose anything," Horsey said firmly. Then, softer, "I have got you to look after. That is my responsibility. I was the one who took you in, no one else. You might not understand now, but in time you will."
He looked thoughtfully at Swinebroth, sighing after. "I had hoped this kind of life would be better than fending for yourself alone."
"Then let me help more," Swinebroth's chest tightened as he sat beside his greedy old master. He did not wish to disappoint Horsey, the only family he had.
"You cannot be saying that after having been trapped here for fifty years. When you are lying in your grave, half alive, with dirt lumped in your throat," Horsey replied with a smile. "Someday when you are ready, I will be the one to lead you out of this temple myself." His weary, wary face exuded an unease that unsettled those who gaze upon it—something the man himself felt as he never ceased to rub the amulets around his neck, dependent on their protective charms against what he believed to be powerful, universal forces beyond mortal reckoning.
It was the kind of fear Swinebroth knew his old master could not relinquish, not at his age. A fear that deepened with every passing day.
As they pressed forward, Swinebroth stole a final glance over his shoulder at the gravesite. In the deepening twilight, shadows pooled within the hollow that held Elder Lajik's remains—darker and more menacing than those cast by the surrounding trees. Unspoken questions churned in Swinebroth's mind which grew heavier with each step, a chain binding him to this dread.
At last, Horsey broke the silence, his voice subdued, almost apologetic. "Bear it." He paused, his elongated shadow distorting under the fading light. From his vantage point, Horsey could see the exhaustion etched on the boy's face, the dark circles beneath his eyes stark against the smears of red face paint—animal fat applied with ritual precision at each dawn.
"Circumstances like these," Horsey murmured, "will force you to get your hands dirty."
Swinebroth nodded, though the gravity of his master's words settled like a stone upon his chest. His gaze drifted to the towering temple walls ahead, their polished surfaces catching the fading light of dusk with an otherworldly glow. The structure seemed almost sentient, a silent colossus standing vigil over the land. His steps grew heavier, yet he dared not falter. The warmth of Carnelian Hall lay beyond those walls—a sanctuary of modest comforts, but a haven nonetheless. For all its shortcomings, it was the only refuge he could call his own.
Horsey's gait grew more deliberate as he pushed forward, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Swinebroth quickened his pace to match, forcing himself to look ahead instead of behind. Still, the unease lingered.
"Horsey," Swinebroth murmured after a long pause, his voice hesitant. "Will Lajik's soul find peace?"
Horsey cast him a sidelong glance, his expression inscrutable in the waning light. "The dead," he said with quiet finality, "have their own way of settling their accounts, boy. It is best not to ask."
The boy shivered, pulling his thin robes tighter around his shoulders. He was not sure what frightened him more: the thought of Lajik's restless soul or the idea that his old master might be right. As the temple loomed closer, Swinebroth made a silent vow to the stars overhead that one day he would repay his debt to Horsey.