The endless crimson stretches before me, and I find myself wondering why I am here. Shouldn’t I have woken up in my real body by now? Or am I truly dead? I stare blankly at the various crystals before me. My gaze first falls upon the red one, yet it does not shine like the others. The brown, the black, the yellow, and the red—all of them glow either faintly or not at all. Gradually, the crimson hue begins to merge with shades of blue and green. I turn my gaze from the red crystal, shifting between the two. I am unimpressed as the green one challenges the blue light. It feels oddly familiar. My body tenses, a heavy burden weighing on my shoulders, and I fixate on the green crystal.

  In the next moment, my hand is already upon it, my body standing beside the green chair. A gentle breeze brushes through my blonde hair, green light flickering in my blue eyes, and, in an instant, the scene in the crimson palace darkens. A foul stench fills the air—human bodies strewn about, either tangled together or lying in disarray. The old, the young, men, women, bastards, and cripples—yet they all share one thing in common. Brown blood. A stinking odor assaults my nose as three individuals dressed far more elegantly than the surrounding masses walk past. Beside me stands another man, and I am within the body of Eriksson.

  Eriksson wrinkles his nose at the stench of the crowd. At every corner, people lie in their own filth—excrement and urine. Some are even clutching their bodies, smeared in red. One of the well-dressed men in brown speaks, “Because of these lower creatures, the prices for red blood will rise even more.” Another adds, “Because of these pale browns, a red blood will soon cost double.” The spitting brown man clenches his fist, while another of the trio grabs his whip and impulsively sprints forward.

  “You filthy pale ones! Stop gorging yourselves!” he shouts, the crack of the whip resounding loudly as it strikes, leaving brown stains on the back of the devouring brown individuals. They scream, backing away from the crimson corpse lying nearby. Three in number, they continue eating, but now more slowly or not at all. A final lash follows, this time landing on the head. It is a child, no more than twelve years old. Only moments ago, the child was eating, just like the others, but now the child lies lifeless on the ground. A pale brown fluid spills from its head.

  My gaze falls downward. The man beside me trembles and the well-dressed browns laugh, their grotesque dimples showing as they grin, their yellowish-red teeth exposed beneath dark brown gums. I want to disfigure their smiling faces. My hands tremble with rage, my veins pulsate, but I cannot move. It is Eriksson’s body, and he must do as he wishes—more importantly, such actions should not lead to his death. I remain calm, my cold eyes fixed upon the other browns as they beg for their lives, holding their arms before their heads, enduring lashings to their ribs and arms. A man, a woman, and a child.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  My eyes widen, just as Eriksson’s do. And only now do I realize that it is a family. Their shimmering eyes, in the face of their impending death. The father, trying to reach his child, just as the mother does, perhaps the child’s mother. Only when they see their child lying motionless, when they see their pale brown blood mixing with the child’s blood on the stone floor, do they lower their arms. Tears stream down their faces, and I feel Eriksson’s foot move forward, his hands trembling, but it is too late. A whip-crack follows, and the family lies together on the ground, their matching pale brown blood mixing.

  They lie in tears, but the lashes continue. The murderer laughs, as do the other two browns. They laugh, mutilating the corpses further until a rough and cold voice pierces the suffocating atmosphere of the small space.

  “That’s enough,” the voice says, its owner a frail silhouette. Despite his small stature, the three browns bow deeply upon seeing the old man in the distance, their faces nearly kissing the ground.

  “Your Excellency!” they speak in unison. The old man speaks again, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture of piety.

  “Rise, children of the Abyss.” And so, they rise, their expressions twisted as they look upon us. Their pristine clothing is dark, as though it were the ruins of a slum-like city, yet they stand with the air of arrogant parasites. Pale brown blood sticks to the whip of the one who had struck the family, and I stare, dumbfounded, into the distance. The man beside me looks down at the ground with a demeaning, acidic posture, while Eriksson’s body gazes into the dark brown, almost black eyes of the fragile old man.

  I can feel his hands tingling, yet he does not move. He listens, just as I do, following the old voice.

  “Follow me into the Abyss. You two as well,” the old man commands. The three speak in unison, their eyes wide with surprise.

  “But Father…” Their voices are louder than they intend, and they immediately recoil, dropping slightly to their knees. Their clean hands touch the filthy ground, and their faces twist in disgust. One of the three speaks again, this time in a more strained tone.

  “But Father, they are of low blood. We were only supposed to bring them to Gent.” Sweat pours down their brows, their voices cracking, their faces darkening further.

  The old man looks down at the three with cold authority.

  “I know, but Gent is currently in the Abyss.” The three browns lower their stance even further until the old man turns to leave.

  I bite my inner cheek, forcing myself to calm down. The old man is gone, as mysteriously as he arrived, leaving the three browns, now bitter, staring at the ground. Then, before I know it, I feel an overwhelming force pulling me. A warm liquid pours over me, a shiver running down my spine, and I see only darkness, then red once again.

  Once more, I am immersed in the endless crimson sea, drenched in blood. My crimson palace, and once again, I sit upon my throne. I glance into the distance, my shoulders slumping as I notice the blue light flickering nearby. Aston Rosenmahl—and the strange sensation of millions of hands tugging at me fades once more.