A warped and brittle wooden bridge spanned the muddy water just up ahead. Behind it stood a village, its sagging buildings leaning at odd angles, the sinking sun casting long shadows over the uneven streets. He knew where he was—the Town of Stupidity.
No one actually chose to live in Stupidity, unlike Carnal Policy, where if you just work hard enough, you can have that dreamed-of estate. You’re sent here for failing. But not for just any failure—complete failure. Like gambling away your life savings in Vain Delights or getting drunk and beating your family. Some, though, are here through no fault of their own, like losing an arm or leg in an unlucky accident.
Even the name was stupid. Town of Stupidity. But nobody quite knew if calling a shabby village a town was an act of stupidity itself, or just for a good laugh.
Staff in hand, Seeker stepped onto the bridge. It creaked, groaned, and gave under his feet—then cracked, forcing him back. He swore under his breath.
The stench of stagnant water rose from ruts and puddles, mixing with the faint mustiness of decayed wood and the acrid smoke of poorly tended fires. Water dripped from a leaky roof, slow and irregular. Occasional muttering. Distant chatter.
Best not go through that. But the sun was setting in the west, and the cool evening was settling in. He had no choice.
***
He turned from the bridge and set out through town when three figures emerged from an alleyway, moving with slow, casual confidence. Their presence unsettled him. He tightened his grip on his staff.
The tallest among them, a man with a broad frame and dull, heavy features, smirked. “Where you off to in such a hurry, traveler?”
He swallowed, keeping his voice steady. “I’m just passing through. I have no business here.”
The second, thinner and wiry, tilted his head. His eyes flicked to Seeker’s staff, and then to his coat. “No business, eh? That’s a shame. We like visitors who bring business, don’t we, Blunt?”
“That’s right, Slip. We does.”
The third, a hunched figure with shifting eyes muttered something under his breath, barely audible, as if speaking to himself. The other two didn’t acknowledge it.
Seeker shifted his stance, planting his staff firmly in the dirt. “Let me pass.”
Blunt let out a short, amused laugh, “Oh, did you hear that, Mutter? He has a stick.” Before Seeker could react, he lunged forward, striking the staff aside with one powerful swing of his arm. The force of it wrenched Seeker’s grip, sending a jolt up his arms. The staff hit the ground with a thud.
“Not so mighty now, are you?” Slip chuckled, stepping forward. His hand darted toward Seeker’s coat, rifling through its folds. He twisted to resist, but Blunt shoved him hard, sending him stumbling back.
Mutter reached into Seeker’s coat and pulled out the worn, leather-bound book. He flipped through the pages with blank disinterest before holding it up to Slip.
Slip raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? A book?”
Blunt scoffed, unimpressed, “Words won’t feed you.”
He lunged, but Slip shoved him back again. Mutter, apparently having lost interest, let the book slip from his fingers, letting it fall carelessly onto the ground.
Blunt held him fast. Seeker twisted, but the man’s fingers dug deep into his arms. Slip rifled through his satchel and pulled out a loaf of bread. He took a bite, then spat it out. “The book might’ve tasted better,” he said, dropping it and smashing it underfoot.
Slip reached into the satchel and pulled out the pouch, weighing it in his hand. Coins clinked softly. He laughed, careless. “More like it.”
His throat tightened. He lunged for the pouch, but Slip shoved him back. He staggered forward—Blunt punched him in the mouth, and he hit the mud hard. Dust filled his mouth, bitter and dry, mixing with the stink of the unwashed thieves, sweat, and the moldy air of the town. “Why don’t you take my clothes too?” he shouted.
Mutter’s lips moved, but what came out was a string of nonsense. Blunt and Slip nodded—then burst out laughing, and turned and disappeared down the alley. Their voices trailed off, swallowed by the rot of the town.
He slammed his fist into the mud. It gave with a wet, sucking sound. He’d worked so hard for that money, and it was gone. He grabbed the muddy bread and dropped it again, stomach turning. A frog croaked from a nearby puddle. Something passed through him—humiliation, maybe, but at least they’d seen him.
He picked up the Book, wiping mud from the cover and smoothing pages splattered with dirt. It wasn’t ripped. Still readable. He breathed a quiet thank-you and tucked it into his coat, close to his heart.
He grabbed his staff and set off again, following the river. The sun had set, but staying wasn’t an option. His eyes caught every flicker, every shifting shadow. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding once the village was behind him.
The river curved into the twilight’s gloom, and he followed.
