Deal

Osric scans the treeline, searching for the arrow’s origin. Then — something drops.

A hooded archer steps through a cloud of snow, lowering the brown cloak’s hood to reveal black hair crowned with demon horns.

One after another, more figures drop from the trees — all archers.

Shit! Osric starts an incantation. But just as soon as a fireball appears in his hand, it vanishes. Off in the distance, he sees a white light. A robed demon mage approaches, glowing book in hand.

The archers notch arrows. Osric claws up some snow, throwing it skyward, obscuring himself. He dives flat as the shrieking of arrows whiz past him.

“Come on, get up!” Osric tries to drag the girl. Damn, a lot heavier than she looks.

The demons advance.

“Use the book. It can stop them!” She thrusts it at him.

Osric hesitates. “Me touching that book is a bad idea.” Yet his hand inches closer. What other choice do we have? 

But something connects in his mind. His hand jerks back. “Why do you want me to use this book so badly? And if you’re from the kingdom, how do you even know about it?”

Drip.

He stiffens. Something needle-sharp pricks his ankle. The girl has sliced it open with a knife. A wave of wooziness floods him. He collapses.

His surroundings blur, but the girl sharpens into focus. She rises, yanking the arrow from her side, flesh tearing, but she doesn't even flinch. The mage approaches, extending a hand to her wound. His palm glows a blue color — it looks like he’s healing her.

“What’s going on? You’re an adventurer, right?” Osric croaks.

A jagged cackle flies out the girl's throat. “An adventurer? Yeah, right.” She rakes her hair back, revealing horn-stubs.

She tricked me! He screams in his mind as his vision smears.

The tree trunks begin to writhe, shifting from tall, straight lines of bark into a squiggled mess. The pine needles loose their green color, flashing to orange, red, and then pink. The snow shifts to a sickly yellow. The outlines of the figures talking before him warp, stretching into eerie shadows like reflections cast by a funhouse mirror.

Osric's stomach convulses. Purple vomit pours out of his mouth.

Drip.

His world devolves into a jumble of color. The colors swallow him whole.

>>>

Osric's eyelids snap open. In front of him are his hands — they're green.

He sits up, examining them. He’s in a cell.

“You’re finally awake.” That voice — King Anzu.

Osric rises, gripping the bars. “What did you do to me!?”

“Deathfang venom. Not enough to kill you.”

“You bastard!” Ostrich screams, the rage tearing at his throat. "You set that up."

Anzu sneers. “Humans often awaken their true power when others are in danger. I had to be sure you weren’t hiding anything.” He produces the book and tosses it into the cell. “I’ve given you enough chances. Time has run out. If you were truthful, and you can't restore the book, then you’re of no use to me.” He turns, striding down the hall.

"Coward. Come back here!" Osric rattles the bars.

As Anzu departs, the lanterns along the opposite wall snuff out one by one. With their blue glow vanishing, Osric is plunged into darkness.

"Hey!" Osric belts out another shout. But puke follows his words. He doubles over as vomit floods his mouth. He stumbles to the corner bucket, retching until blood mixes with bile.

He crumples to his side. The king knew the tome’s name... the fake adventurer knew my grandfather’s name. I’m such a fool.

>>>

Time is blurring, but Osric surmises it's been a while. The sickly green tint is draining from his flesh ever so slowly.

Drip.
The dripping won’t stop. The damn dripping. He laughs until it cracks into a sob.

The stench of vomit mingling with feces in the bucket gnaws at his nose. Every inhale makes him want to heave, but he has nothing left to regurgitate. He can't remember the last time he was fed. The cold floor against his cheek offers faint relief.

“So that's it? My only hope of getting out of here, of being rescued, was a façade. Nothing more than a little game to the Demon King.” Tears streak his face. “The kingdom's not coming. My parents aren't coming. No one... No one cares. No one ever cared."

He wipes at his tears so violently that his skin stings, raw from friction.

“So this is the end of my second life… slowly starving away in this vile dungeon. I never wanted this. I never wanted to be here. I just want to go back to my parents’ basement… sit in the dark, play video games, and do nothing. No fantasy worlds, no demons, no prophecies, no sages. That would be… nice.”

“You want a peaceful little house out in the woods… where you can sit on the porch, drink a cup of tea, and watch birds flit from tree to tree.” The book’s nasally, dry voice slithers into his skull, bouncing around like a persistent echo.

"Yeah, I do. You get it" Osric nods faintly.

"I can help you with that."

“You can?” Osric drags himself closer.

“Yes. You help me, and I’ll help you. Just pick me up.”

He reaches out, pausing only for a heartbeat, memories of the angel flashing through his mind. Screw that angel. His finger brushes the cover. The title erupts in a golden glow — then fades. New letters are scribed onto the page as if with an invisible pen

The title now reads: "Book of Sloth."

He opens the cover — everything is gone. He's surrounded by a black void. No floor beneath him, no walls around him.

Flashing into existence before him: a rope hammock, suspended on nothing. A round, purple man in a tropical button-down rocks lazily. His bulbous nose, wide beady eyes, and pointed, animal-like ears make him more beast than man.

“Call me Sloth,” the man says, struggling to roll out of the hammock.

"Are you who I was just talking to?" Osric asks as the man tumbles out of the hammock, bouncing off of his large belly.

"Yes, but first we have to make a deal." Sloth labors to his feet as if gravity were fighting with him. "The deal entails—"

"I agree. Let's make the deal.” Osric interrupts.

“Wait — I had a whole speech planned. Don’t you want to hear the terms of our deal?"

“I don’t care. Anything’s better than being trapped in here.”

Sloth shrugs. “Alright.”