He stood alone in the Market square, his white robes tattered at the edges but cleaned with meticulous care. The eye, singular, crimson, and very surreal even for Night Market folk, sat in the center of his hood, flicking from person to person as he struggled to minister to the masses. He spoke to no one in particular and no one in particular listened.

  Until I did. A curious glance, but an unfortunate mistake.

  His body lurched like a marionette suddenly pulled forth. The book in his clawed hands flew open, and before I could turn, he had arrived in front of me.

  “You looked,” he exhaled, voice made of raspy breath and squeaking high tones as it cracked in excitement. “Oh radiant day! Oh, a blessed optic convergence! You’ve seen me! Which means the Eye has also seen you!”

  I stepped back. He stepped forward. The book was open to pages of red ink that writhed like worms escaping a sudden rainstorm.

  “Do you know of the Eye?” he asked, almost giddy. “The All-Gazer. The Ever-Watcher. The One Who Blinks For Us All.”

  I tried to speak but he didn’t let me get a word in.

  “When His gaze falls upon this firmament, cities smolder, slowly, beautifully, incinerating from the inside out. The blood within your body will boil; not all at once, no, no! That would be a mercy. It starts with your nerves, each popping as the heat rolls over the body. It curls your bones, bending as the heat intensifies in your marrow. The skin bubbles last, as He enjoys watching the suffering build from within.”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  I audibly gasped, my feet stumbling as I back peddled slowly. He leaned closer, whispering in an excited tone.

  “Your soul, oh yes, your soul, will be laid bare, flayed and searing under His scrutiny. He will see you, truly. All your secrets. All your guilt. All the shame you’ve packed deep down in your inner self. He will know it. And judge accordingly.”

  He raised one trembling finger, his pitch rising as he continued.

  “Pray,” he said, voice squeaking, “that you are judged worthy. For those deemed impure are not blessed with annihilation. No. They are held under his gaze for eternity. Suspended, weeping beneath the weight of His eternal rage. Screaming, aging, unmade and remade again and again, but never undone completely.”

  The eye on his hood pulsed once, like a spasm, but not quite a blink.

  I turned and tried to go.

  He darted forward, grabbing my hand and daubed a cold smear of ink just above my wrist. I struggled to break free, but he didn't hold long.

  “A mark!” he crooned. “So you may be recognized. So you might burn faster. Glorious day indeed! Oh, blessed, glorious day!”

  I didn’t wait to correct his bizarre behavior. I ran, a full sprint and darted between alleys.

  Down the twisting alleys of the Market, past tents of silk and stalls from ancient wood, through incense clouds and past musical acts that did nothing to deafen the sound of his parting words:

  “You’ve been seen! And now the Eye will never forget!”

  I didn’t stop until the noise returned, until the crowd swallowed me completely.

  But the feeling didn’t leave.

  I was watched. It felt like now I was always being watched.

  That night, from the safety of my apartment high above the western quarter, I tried to laugh it off. I leaned out the window. Just to see if the Emissary had followed me, as the feeling just wouldn't leave.

  And the moon turned and blinked at me.

  Once.

  Slowly.

  Judgingly.