Everything changed after Court Rahashel showed his colors. As far as Peter knew, Stalpia and the rest of Nosmeria had undergone a metamorphosis.

The already dark tone favored by the people seemed to grow even more devoid of color — an almost constant overcast depressed the landscape. The dark wood and shingles seemed utterly black. The cobblestones turned old and worn. Even buildings and trees seemed to rot — but that was only to be expected after so long.

The glass crop ring on Peter’s finger fogged his mind, making cognitive thought difficult and distorting his perception of time.

The haze in Peter’s mind made him live in what he would have called ‘near-total indifference’ — if he had the will to care. The Nosmerian defectors, commonly called overseers, referred to him as a crop, and he never could bring himself to wonder why.

Peter wandered and ate when the enforcers rang the bell. When he got tired, he slept in abandoned buildings, though he always felt like he was asleep. Peter shuffled aimlessly with the herd of his fellow Nosmerians. He heeded the simple commands of the overseers when they gave them but was otherwise left alone.

Peter stepped past one of the few windows to remain intact. His wrinkled and bearded face stared back. After all these mindless years, it made sense that he should look so haggard. That coat, which once was his pride, hung around him in taters, but he never took it off. His formerly curly and dark hair had grown long, thin, and grey.

Peter continued drifting down the street, directed by nothing more than the wind.

There was one element of his former life that kept his interest. That was his friend.

Crops didn’t make friends, but he was fond of one old woman. They might have been friends when they were fully living. Her name was Iris. Peter smiled. He never forgot that, even though he forgot just about everything else. His old brain didn’t hold memories as well as it used to.

People gathered ahead. What was it, an execution?

Peter drifted with his fellow crops; they were usually herd animals.

He sauntered to the square, one of the few parts of the city that Rahashel had altered and not left to rot.

The Cabinet Hall had been demolished and replaced with a spacious white sandstone palace. The cobblestone square was also replaced with sandstone, shallow, crystal-clear pools, and exotic plants. Four obelisks stood positioned in each corner of the courtyard. Between the obelisks was the only place outside the palace that seemed to get any sunlight. Peter would have found the oasis beautiful before becoming a crop. Its beauty was also well protected.

Dozens of sentinels lined either side of the square. They stood with girdles and skirts. Their flesh was wrapped and tarred. They stood still as statues, day and night, unless some unlucky free mind tried to do something stupid.

Peter wandered into the square to find that he was correct; there was an execution. Espen Hummel, the former mayor of Horvath, headed the ceremony. Mayor Hummel had surrendered his city to Court Rahashel for promises of life and power. Now, he was little more than a glorified executioner. Many of his men became the overseers who managed Rahashel's human herds as part of the same deal.

A bound man on an elevated platform glared at his captors through a puffy, swollen, and bloody face.

“This man is charged and found guilty of removing his crop ring and joining the Nine Fingers!” Mayor Hummel declared to a figure sitting in one of many sandstone thrones carved into the front of the palace. The others were empty. Only one elder lich needed to be present for executions. This one was Sobek. With a powerful body, he had the head of a crocodile.

Sobek looked at Mayor Hummel through reptilian eyes, and the sellout motioned for two of his personal, ghoulish sentinels. The mummified soldiers grabbed the prisoner and held his bound hands so the elder lich could see where he was missing a ring finger. The nub was aged and scarred.

Sobek nodded. “Leech him,” He croaked in an impossibly low and rumbled voice.

Mayor Hummel nodded and pulled a ceremonial gauntlet onto his hand. The sentinels held the prisoner firmly. The treacherous mayor smiled as he grabbed the man's face, he seemed to enjoy his job the more that he did it.

The gauntlet flared with purple light, and violet luminescent vapor wisped from the rebel into Hummel’s. The man didn’t scream, but he didn’t last long. He was already old.

The sentinels dragged the aged corpse away, and the executioner-mayor turned back to Sobek.

The crocodile-headed lich croaked oddly and waved a dismissive hand, ending the brief ceremony.

Peter looked away. He wasn’t here for the execution. He scanned the crowd for Iris but unfortunately didn’t see her. That was too bad. He didn’t feel like moving.

He moved anyway, away from the sunlit square and back into the dark streets of the city. He passed many other crops and even a few free-mind humans. Men who defected to Court Rahashel out of fear became his enforcers, and the powerful who sought the promise of eternal youth served as his overseers and enforcers.

Peter didn’t see Iris in any of her usual wandering places, so he decided to check out the sewage outlet, where they often escaped when predators prowled the streets.

The sentinels and overseers didn’t bother to guard the crops well. Crops didn’t run.

The laughter of three approaching figures caused Peter to feel a hint of the first feeling he had in a long time — anxiety. They were dressed in dark but well-made clothes and looked perfect in every way. The figures were familiar to him: Vincent, Jasper, and Dirk — human-draining vampires, three newcomers to Stalpia.

Predators.

Without warning, Jasper snatched a passing crop in an iron grip and latched two needle-like fangs into him.

The crop squealed and bucked for a moment but then went limp.

Dirk laughed, but Jasper whined in protest before dropping the body.

“These crops are so old. Barely a sip of Tijd left in them.”

Vincent scowled at Jasper. “We are guests here. We can’t just drain Court Rahashel’s crop like that.”

Jasper shrugged. “Court Rahashel will be just fine, and besides, It’s not like that crop had much more to contribute.”

“Stop it.”

Jasper sobered and nodded once. They continued, and crops shuffled out of their way, Peter included. He had no intention of passing away a day sooner than he needed to. Suddenly, he felt a spike of fear as he considered that Iris might have fallen victim to these new vampiric hunters. It was unlikely. These three were the primary reason he and Iris had begun to spend so much time in the sewers in the first place. The sewers were an excellent place to hide. Peter had been working on a school report about Stalpia’s drain systems before the invasion. The Stalpia sewers were mostly intact Ataggin ruins. After the House of Nyamar stripped them of Waarheid technology, Nosmerian engineers reoutfitted them to function through clever application of gravity and shutoff valves. Peter’s fogged mind seemed to latch onto the location, probably because that research was some of his last before he put on the ring.

Peter continued down the distorted streets and past the warped buildings. Everything was contorted, like a picture frame askew and off-center on a wall, some teetering dangerously, threatening to collapse. Peter didn’t remember it being like that; it was almost as if Court Rahashel’s presence had corroded the very earth.

Peter made his way down through the lower streets at what would have been an agonizing pace if he had any real comprehension of time. He crossed the bridge that spanned over the storm drain outlet. Litter and garbage cluttered the channel. There were even complete sets of bones and other human remains that were abandoned to the rats. A reminder that just because Court Rahashel could manipulate the dead didn’t mean that he always did.

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Peter climbed down the channel very carefully. His balance wasn’t up to par with that of a fully alive person. He slid into ankle-deep runoff water and garbage. His crop ring made the icy water register mildly chill in his muted mind.

A trickle of water and waste poured over the storm drain’s

lip. It wasn’t as bad as it would have been before Rahashel’s arrival. The court must have shut the sewer drainage down. The living population was a small fraction of what it used to be. Almost all of the crops had died off by now.

Peter stepped into the dark drain outlet, his torn shoes sloshing in the sewage runoff. The dark, silent passage extended into a complex labyrinth of drainage pipes that would be treacherous if not for the regular steel grates and locking man-gates, specifically designed to keep people from going too deep.

“Iris?” Peter forced himself to say. Verbalizing anything was like sprinting into a hurricane.

No reply. He sighed as he ventured further in. He had to walk with a slouch, which his aged back protested with every step. His already deteriorating eyesight struggled to adjust to the gloom, but deeper in was a patch of light where another storm drain intersected with his drainage pipe.

“Iris?” Peter had to stop to catch his breath. It mainly was from speaking, not from the walk. It was exhausting to talk out loud. Light from the cross storm drain shined on the wall.

Something shifted in the dark further down.

Peter stood up, staring into the dark. He always came down here. He had never encountered anything bigger than a rat.

“Iris,” he whispered. His imagination took hold, and in his mind, he could see Jasper hiding in the sewers, waiting for a stupid crop to wander down there by himself. Of course, that was a foolish idea. Jasper could feed on any crop he wished up above. Peter struggled to string reasonable thoughts together.

That something moved again, most definitely larger than a rat.

“Wh—who?” Peter muttered.

It groaned just outside of the light.

Peter stepped back in what slight panic he could force to the surface. Panic was an easier emotion to muster as a crop. Peter felt a sense of self-preservation, but not in any rebellious shade, like anger. Only fear, alarm, or the more submissive flavors of survival instincts remained.

Run. Hide.

“Help,” a voice groaned from the other side.

Peter looked at the water flowing his way and realized it had the dirty orange taint of blood. Peter backed up, and a figure grunted as he stepped out of the shadows.

It was a man. He was old, though probably not as old as Peter. He fiercely clutched a bleeding wound on his abdomen.

“Wh-who, a-are?” Peter whispered, trying to string more than one word together. Then he noticed the man’s weapon.

The man held a broad-bladed falchion in his right hand, stained with the black blood of the undead. He also had several crossbow bolts strapped to his forearm, though there was no sign of the crossbow. Weapons and undead blood that would mean …

Peter looked at the man’s left hand, and sure enough, he was missing his ring finger. This man was a crop-gone rebel.

Nine — Nine Fingers, Peter realized in horror, his muted brain just barely only making the connection. This man was a terrorist, and Peter knew what happened to members of the Nine Fingers.

“You’re a crop?” the man spat the words through clenched teeth. He was hurt badly. He chuckled through his agony. “Rot, you’re my best option.”

Peter stepped back, looking desperately for the nearest exit. His body tensed in vulnerable apprehension.

“Don’t do it” the man growled. He steadied himself with a bloodied hand against the tunnel.

Peter looked back the way he came, seeing his path away from the threat. He ignored the threat and tried bolting for the opening. He ended up just shuffling slightly faster and much more awkwardly than usual.

“Really?” The man snorted from behind, and Peter heard the man’s falchion clatter to the ground.

Rough hands seized Peter from behind and forced him down. The man grunted as he went down with Peter into the shallow, dirty water. The man cursed again and grabbed at his wound again. He growled in pain, perspiration dripping from his forehead.

“Listen, man!” he snapped. “I don’t have a whole lot of time. They’re right behind me!”

“Help,” Peter wheezed.

“I don’t know who you think I am, but I do know they are doing all kinds of things to your mind, so I’m going to ask you to forgive me for this.”

The man produced a knife from his boot and grabbed Peter's hand. Peter found the strength to squeal in protest and curled his fingers into a fist as he tried to pull away.

“Knock that off! I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m trying to help you!” the man snapped in frustration. He probably would have handled Peter more easily, but blood flowed from his wound freely with every degree of exertion he forced on Peter. “Stop resisting!” he snapped.

Peter pulled and struggled to get away, but he couldn’t fight. Crops didn’t fight. That was programmed out of them.

The man grabbed Peter’s wrist and pried his fingers open with his fingers that also clutched the knife.

“No!” Finally, Peter mustered some volume, but it exhausted him, and his hand opened quickly to his prying enemy.

The man slapped Peter’s opened hand against the stone wall of the sewage tunnel.

“No!” Peter gasped as he tried to pull his hand away, but he couldn’t dislodge the man’s grip.

“I recommend you don’t move,” the man coughed flecks of blood. “And yes, this will hurt.”

The man grunted as he hacked at Peter’s finger. He cut awkwardly with the pointed knife, the blade also biting into Peter’s middle finger and pinky. But the man sawed relentlessly and cut Peter’s ring finger off in seconds.

Peter screamed. It all returned to him, his memories, speech, and mind, free from the cursed ring.

The man grabbed Peter tight and clapped a bloodied hand over his mouth.

“Yes, I know it’s all so confusing, painful, and shocking in every way, but I need you to be very, very quiet, okay?”

Peter bit his lip and nodded as he grabbed his slippery hand, trying to stop the blood flow.

Sitting in the dirty water, the man slumped back against the opposite wall. The sewer held drainage pipes mounted to the ceiling carrying sewage from the city. The tunnel they sat in was designed to pipe out irrigation to the lowlands in greater quantity. Despite the separation in piping, the scent of human waste lingered in the air.

“You’re old and frail. I hope the shock doesn’t kill you, but you probably didn’t have much longer left anyway.” He laughed cynically. “I guess you have more than I do.”

Peter looked at the man. He could see him with much better clarity. His wounds were grievous, and he lost a lot of blood in his struggle with Peter.

“I’m free,” Peter whispered to himself.

“That’s what you think. You’re just entering hell, friend. I’m the one who will be free.”

“You’re with Nine Fingers?” Peter asked, clutching his bloody stump of a finger. “A revolutionary, a free mind?”

The man saluted with a bloody hand. “The name is Van Gutter.”

“Peter,” Peter responded.

“You Nosmerian?”

“Yes.”

The man shook his head sympathetically. “You were here at Court Rahashel’s first attack?”

“Yes.”

“Poor kid. Now, your body is old, but your mind is still young. Lacking both experience and strength. You’ll have to do.”

“For what?” Peter asked.

Van Gutter groaned and clutched his wound. “I don’t have much time. I’m transporting something that we stole en route for Court Rahashel.”

“What?” Peter asked, feeling overwhelmed by the surreal change of events.

Van Gutter reached into a pouch and pulled out what looked to be a metal armband with strange scrawlings engraved into it.

“What’s that?” Peter asked.

“A weapon. I’m not making it out of here, kid. I need you to get it to Nine Fingers.”

“Me?” Peter cried. “I don’t even know where to find them!”

“Get west of Rahashelian territory, and they’ll find you.”

“How much Territory does Court Rahashel have?” Peter asked, feeling the overwhelming weight burdening him. “We’re in the heart of Nosmeria!”

“Right, you wouldn’t know. Court Rahashel only has Beglos, Cobec, Stalpia, Horvath, and the surrounding territories. Over half of Nosmeria is still free of his rule. Most of his forces have been fighting in Calacray.”

“What?” Peter asked, bewildered. After all of these years, an undead overlord couldn’t take Nosmeria? It was a small and weak enough state.

It felt good to recall geography again, but all of this information at once hurt his head.

“What does it do? The weapon, I mean?”

The man shook his head. “That’s confidential. But the lives of everyone depend on its safe delivery to Nine Fingers. Don’t let it get back into their hands, or the lives of a lot of good men will have been in vain.” Vangutter cursed and spat blood. “Mine, too.”

Peter examined the man. His words grew labored and slurred.

“Don’t ... let them get it … Don’t … put it on.”

Van Gutter closed his eyes and opened his hand around the armband.

Peter accepted it with his good hand. His own hand was so strange and alien. It was old, hairy, wrinkled, and had many blemishes on the skin. How many years had he been mindlessly wandering?

Peter studied the armband.

It proved to be what looked like a simple armband with unknown writings on it, covering the inside and the outside. How could it possibly be a weapon? The strange letters or glyphs emitted a gentle purple luminescence in the dark tunnel.

Get it to Nine Fingers? Escape Nosmeria with stolen property from Court Rahashel? What had he gotten himself into?

Ma.

The thought hit him so unexpectedly that he flinched. As far as his fully conscious mind was concerned, this was the day after the lich, Anubis, made him put the ring on. It all happened so fast that he never had time to process any of it. Tess Kroon, his perfect and sweet mother, lay dead in the street, stricken with age. Now, her body could be one of the undead laborers or guards crawling over Stalpia.

She died a lifetime ago, but Peter felt it now. Time didn’t heal wounds when you weren’t awake for any of it.

A lump the size of Chur welled in his throat. She was perfect, but now she was dead, slaughtered where she stood, pleading for her son and Iris.

Iris! She was old now, like him. They probably had less than ten years left to live. Rahashel had stolen their lives.

Court Rahashel had taken everything — his home, his life, his mother, Iris — but now Peter held a weapon that could hurt him: a god. He would get it to Nine Fingers, but first, he had to save Iris.

Peter checked Van Gutter, but the man had silently bled out sometime when Peter was processing everything.

“Iris,” Peter said, clearly but so low that only he and the corpse could hear, “I’m coming for you.”

He looked at the band again. He had seen something like it before. When Rahashel betrayed Nosmeria, he had seen Rahashel wear an armband just like it. If it was a weapon, it was one Rahashel himself had. Peter had always been quick to analyze, and slow to reach conclusions, but that was yesterday when he had a life to look forward to — back when his greatest problems were school reports and helping his mother balance her ledgers. Now he had nothing, so, torn between rage and grief, he ignored Van Gutter’s command and put the armband on.