Though dubbed a Holy Knight, Kane Notchm had never earned any respect. His skinny body looked better suited for bookkeeping than battle, making him an easy target. The others called him "Kane the Fool" while inventing cruel games—making him drag overloaded supply carts until his legs gave out or burning his only uniform so he'd march naked through thorny paths. During crusades, he became the group's pack animal, hauling equipment that left permanent dents on his shoulders.
Walk too slow? Whipped. Lose supplies? Whipped. Worst were the smirks when knights stole ration mid-march, guaranteeing fresh wounds by sundown.
Years of abuse left Kane's body marked like a roadmap of pain. The crisscross scars on his back told the story of every humiliation. Even when keeping pace under blistering sun or freezing cold, they found new ways to hurt him—"accidental" weapon bumps during drills, forcing him to dig frozen firewood with bare hands, kicking his boots into sewage pits.
At night, escape fantasies flickered through his restless sleep. Each morning brought fresh torment—salt rubbed in wounds, stolen rations—but behind those tormented eyes, burns resolution. Under the fool's ragged cloak burned a fire no whip could put out because he had a secret, a gift given to him by God, delivered when he lost all hope. Let them think him stupid. Let them mock his frail frame. Only God can judge him.
Kane never joined the hunt or sacrificial feast. After every butcher, they forced him to gather the monster cores while magic explosions cracked the earth around him. Every collection became a dangerous mission—he'd return bleeding from flying rocks, new burns crossing old scars. During the ritual, his only contact with the sacred lambs was binding their legs for worship, the ritual preparations twisting like salt in his social wounds. Outside the feasting tent, he endured his brothers' drunken laughter and singing alone in the cold.
When the legion departed, they ordered Kane to forage supplies. He scrambled through abandoned huts and fields, stuffing his arms with moldy grain sacks and rusted tools. But when he staggered back to camp at dawn, only wheel ruts remained. They'd left him—just a skinny man standing ankle-deep in blood-soaked mud, holding supplies nobody needed anymore. The abandoned goods grew heavier with every step he took toward nowhere.
"Damn you all to hell!"… "Fuck your rotten souls!"… "Burn in hell, you bastards!"… "God damn you to eternal fire!"
Kane unleashed a torrent of curses, each one more colorful than the last. "Holy fire, roast them alive!" he hissed, venom dripping from every word. But as the blasphemy left his lips, his head snapped down like a startled turtle retreating into its shell. His eyes darted skyward, scanning for divine retribution—lightning, fire, maybe a rogue meteor.
Then came the shuffle. Oh, the shuffle. Half crouch, half stumble, all panic. He moved like a drunk crab on uneven terrain, arms flailing as if to ward off invisible smites. If anyone had been watching, they wouldn't have just laughed at him—they'd have doubled over, tears streaming, finally laughing with him for once. A one-man slapstick show starring Kane and his existential dread.
Kane froze mid-fume. For once, his scrambled thoughts—usually as jumbled as the gear he hauled—started aligning. Then it hit him like a trebuchet to the chest: The lambs! They're still on the altar!
"HA!" The exclamation erupted before he could stop it. Both hands flew to his mouth, slamming shut the excitement. His eyes bulged like soup bowls on the verge of spilling.
He spun around. Empty fields stretched in every direction. No captain. No armored figures. Just the distant caw of indifferent crows.
The grin broke loose before he could rein it in. It spread wide, impossible to suppress. Shoulders hunched, knees bent awkwardly, Kane initiated the world's worst sneak job toward the tent. Step, tiptoe, step. Every three moves, he craned his neck back, looking like a skittish ostrich caught sneaking cookies. If anyone had seen him, they'd have keeled over from secondhand embarrassment—or joined in just to preserve what little dignity he had left.
Eeeeeeyaaaaahhhh!
A wail burst from the tent. Kane jolted sideways, legs twisting into a hopeless knot. Arms flailed—wild, desperate—like a scarecrow caught in a tornado. Then gravity won. He hit the ground face-first, splattering into rot-soaked mud. His rear stuck up, defiant like an indignant groundhog caught mid-dig.
For three shaky breaths, he didn't move. Cheek mashed into the dirt, he grimaced. The taste of rusted iron seeped into his mouth as if the earth itself was mocking him.
THWAP! His spit launched a mud globule when he finally pushed up. "Nnnggghhhh…" he groaned, wiping dirt-caked eyelashes. Now, his already gross uniform looked dipped in chocolate cake batter.
Kane's ears burned tomato-red as he checked every direction twice. Please let nobody see that.
Aiiiiieeeeeeghhh…
The eerie wail echoed from the tent again. Kane yelped. He backpedaled so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots, then did a jittery dance—sprinting left, circling right, finally creeping back like a scared rabbit. Each slow-motion step crunched louder than snapping twigs.
With trembling fingers, he peeled back the tent flap. He sneaked his head in with both eyes shut like a child caught red-handed in the cookie jar.
He slowly squinted his eyes open. Shocked. Eyes busted wipe. Gaze locked onto the melted-candle figures inside.
Thud! His rear hit dirt so fast it could've left a crater. Color drained from his face, bleaching it white as milk. Crab-walking backward, he wheezed tiny terrified breaths. Those twisted figures weren't moving...but their hollow eye sockets seemed to track him.
After three false starts, he shuffled back into the tent. Scattered sunlights stretched shadows into grasping hands on the walls. His head swiveled like an owl's—checking corners, behind curtains, under the altar draped in bloody cloth.
That's when he heard the sniffles.
A child curled beneath the sacrificial dais, face buried in knees. Kane's neck hairs pricked up. He rubbed his eyes until sparks danced. Still there.
Real.
His heartbeat drum rolled into his ears—not panic now, but that electric thrill when you peek at a graveyard at midnight. The smile stretching his lips felt borrowed from a nightmare.