The tavern could be heard from a block away. Koro had fought the urge to turn back as the sounds pushed against him. Boots thudded against wood, slurred cheers sang, and the sound of someone retching in a nearby alley began to make him restless.

  He tightened his grip on the guide rail and tugged his hood lower, hoping that no one would notice him in the crowd.

  Koro had forgotten how loud taverns were after work hours. Each step inside felt heavier than the last. The room felt as if it were rejecting his presence, like it was another god, bestowing a fifth curse upon him.

  Reaching forward, his hand found the surface of the bar, scratches littered it in random streaks.

  “Good evening,” some woman said from across the bar. Her voice was soft, the scent of a cheap floral perfume drifted by him. She touched Koro’s hand to get his attention. “Can I fetch you an ale, sir?”

  “Actually, I am here to meet someone by the name of Yohric,” he said. His heart pounded, his mouth grew dry. Multiple conversations from different groups were filling his ears, his thoughts felt too hard to hear.

  “Let me ask to see if they are still here,” she said.

  Koro took a step back, and rubbed his clammy hands hard against his temples. The floor beneath him felt like it was shifting, his breathing grew rapid as his head overwhelmed. The nerves and noises worked together, attacking him in sequence.

  Ready to admit defeat and head home, he turned and reached for the guide rail, welcoming the cold steel.

  “Koro, is that you?” Yohric’s voice said from behind him.

  He turned toward the voice, and said, “Sorry, Yohric, I think it was a mistake for me to come. The noise is too much.”

  “I would believe as much,” Yohric said. “I booked us a private room to talk. It is too loud for me so I can’t imagine how you feel.”

  Koro paused, then nodded. Yohric grabbed his hand and led him, his fingers were gentle and comforting.

  They stepped into a smaller room, and Yohric closed the door behind them. The noise that had been scratching at him dulled to a quiet murmur.

  “This is much better,” Koro said. “I almost forgot what my thoughts sounded like.”

  “I’m sure,” Yohric laughed, pulling out a chair. “I took the liberty of getting you an ale.”

  “Thank you, Yohric. If I were to ever turn down an ale, I’m either drunk to all hell or dead,” he said, raising the mug to his lips beneath the hood.

  “Are you not scorching underneath that cloak? I can feel the first glimmers of sweat begin to bead.”

  Koro shifted in his seat, lingering on his reply. He lifted his head and spoke slow, words full of hesitation. “The face under this hood isn’t received well. I wasn’t intending to scare you away just yet.”

  Yohric listened, then sat in the words for a moment. “It is your choice. Understand, however, I will think no less of you for your appearance. As the scriptures say, ‘One born in mud is no less than one born in gold.’”

  “No, but the mud still brands me.” Koro coughed into his sleeve and lifted his hood to show his face.

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  Silence filled the room as Yohric looked upon him.

  The seconds felt like hours to him. He could feel his cheeks turning red.

  “I don’t understand. You’re covered in sores as if you were Cursed by the Dead One, but your eyes are fogged like those Kissed by the Blind One?”

  “I am Kissed by the Blind One. I am also Cursed by the Dead One, Burned by the Bright One, and Marked by the Pale One,” Koro shared.

  He didn’t try to hide behind humor, daring himself to be brave. “I am the one they call The Devil. The reject among rejects.”

  “I’ve heard of The Devil, but believed it to be a rumor,” Yohric said. Koro thought he sounded almost amazed.

  Koro reached for his hood. “If you wish for me to leave, I will.”

  Yohric didn’t answer at first.

  “Now, why would I wish you to leave?”

  Koro froze. He waited for Yohric to spit profanities, but they never came.

  “Where were you raised before coming to The Shade?”

  Koro blinked. “I’m not sure where I was born,” he said. “I was raised in an orphanage near the north, in the small city of Shyvan.”

  “I haven’t traveled much in my days, but I’ve heard it is a beautiful city of old architecture.”

  “I can’t say,” Koro replied. “The orphanage was my cage until I turned eighteen years of age.”

  Questions and drinks kept coming, the hour slipping past before they knew it.

  Koro finished what was left of his ale and set it aside. “Thank you, Yohric. I’ve never had someone talk to me as if I were human.”

  “You are,” Yohric said with conviction. “And I hope you never believe you aren’t. But I must thank you, as well. You’ve trusted me enough to share so much of your burdens. I hope we can do this again soon.”

  “Why don’t we discuss our next visit tomorrow in the Room of Confessions?” Koro laughed, a smile stamped on his face.

  Yohric placed a warm hand over his. “Of course. I look forward to it, Koro.”

  Act Three

  The lines crawled in jagged intervals. Quiet coughs and the scraping of pans echoed through the ration hall. Koro waited in the assisted line, wishing he had come at a quieter hour.

  The ration hall opened twice a week for those who could no longer work. Missing it would mean starving until it opened again.

  Most of those waiting carried disabilities like his—clouded eyes, hands covered in sores, but there were those with missing arms or legs.

  Every few seconds, a man would shout, “Next,” and the line shuffled forward. He could hear those in the working line counting coins and discussing which food they would try this week.

  The queue Koro belonged to was for those with no financial assistance. It offered some loaves of stale bread, dried lentils, salted cabbage or turnips, and sometimes a sliver of cheese or salted fish.

  Judging by the smell hanging in the air, Koro hoped there was a rare fish offering.

  “Next.”

  He felt for the counter, placing his empty satchel on top.

  It’s stickier than last week.

  “Name?” the man asked.

  “Koro,” he said.

  A pause came as the man ruffled through the papers.

  “There isn’t a name listed as ‘Koro’. Is that your given name?”

  “No. It isn’t,” Koro said, his voice becoming a hushed whisper. “But I’ve asked them for weeks to change it to Koro.”

  “That’s odd. I’ll make a note of it beside your information for next time. What is your given name?” the man asked.

  Koro took a deep breath, preparing for the conversation's tone to change. He kept his voice low and said, “It’s listed as The Devil.”

  He heard the man gasp and step back. “You’re The Devil?” The man didn’t care to lower his voice.

  Harsh sounds of revulsion rose from the line behind him.

  “Yes,” Koro replied. “If you could make a note to change it to ‘Koro’, I would appreciate it.”

  “You should be thankful we serve you at all,” the man spat as he threw the food into the satchel. “You deserve the name that brands you.”

  Those behind him voiced agreement toward the man’s remarks. Koro grabbed his satchel, put it over his shoulder, and began to walk away.

  “And don’t think you’d be getting any of the fish reserves. That’s for us humans, not devils.” the man shouted as Koro exited.