The hillfort changed when the sorcerer came.

Before, the locals worshipped dragons. Ribbons and flags in the ten colors wound between the buildings, and people would wake from their first sleep to carry blue, gold, and green lanterns onto the roofs and shout their prayers in the first language. But now it’s quite. They hide from the sorcerer’s blade in the late, waking hours, and the flags show only its eyes.

It sees much, they say, but like them it doesn’t see me.

Our tribe hides in the shadow of the palisade and shelters from the cold wind in the empty reservoir, dining on rats, and the millet meant for pigs. The locals turn their heads not to see our children suffering. Babes, crying in the dark, are less than animals. Beneath notice. How much less am I.

The town stirs from its first sleep, though I have not slept. A cold wind drives stinging sand through the palisade to gather against my sides. I haven’t moved in more than a day. The elders scavenged their own food from a now empty home and found more than enough for our dwindling number. I’m lost, and there is nothing to do but endure. No animals to hunt. No fields to work in the dry, cold winter. No land on which we are allowed to build.

Shadows gather into a hooded, gangly figure gripping a knife. The sorcerer floats past me toward the wattle and daub homes. Tonight, another life will be sacrificed. Another soul for its wretched kiln. Why it passed me by, I don’t know. Perhaps I lost my soul a long time ago. There is so little left in my heart. No magic worth taking. Maybe it can’t even see me.

I stand, silently. The rustling of my robes is covered by a howling gale. I race to follow the sorcerer and draw my old sword. Life spills back into my veins. Hot blood. Purpose. To be overlooked by evil for the last time. The sorcerer isn’t my only enemy—not even the worst among those who wronged us. Its skull shatters like porcelain under the weight of my blow.