Wrend hefted a crate of cheese and considered his brother’s suggestion. Accepting it could not only cost him his life, but also his eternal soul.
Yet, it could also be so tasty.
Grunting at the weight of the cheese, Wrend carried the crate up the steps and out the doorway. He blinked in the sunlight and stopped on the boardwalk as Teirn emerged with his own crate.
“Just think of it,” Teirn said. “Sardo cheese. Or just-right testouri.”
Wrend shrugged. “I’m not debating the value of cheese. It’s how the Master would react to my stealing it.”
Teirn rolled his eyes. “You only lose your soul if you’re caught. Besides, if you do get caught, at least you’ll know why the Master ends up wringing your neck.”
Wrend shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Knowing why you’re having your head popped off is a definite plus. Although the dying part kind of spoils it.”
When Wrend was two, the Master—as tall as clouds and as angry as thunder—came into the playroom. The mothers started to sob. The more experienced children began to cry. From the midst of toys and playmates, the Master lifted a four-year-old girl and twisted her head off.