Life is hard, life is unfair, life is not meant for people like me. That is what I used to believe before I found the truth of the world; life is meant for those who have the courage to take the opportunities given to them. When I understood that's what the people around me were, I could succeed. I could see them for what they were, opportunities, things to be used, things to be discarded.

The first time I got caught stealing bread all I had to do was blame one of the older boys. All it cost me was a neighborhood I had to stay out of. I had to steal clothes, luckily I knew that the other seamstress was a rival, I just had to tell the truth; she had hired me to take the clothes. So that was life; taking and lying. Even the family who accepted my actions and took me in; now their knowledge and wealth are mine, and they are in dungeons for their worship of the occult. I have dedicated my life in the pursuit of the Scapegoat, now I shall meet it face to face.

The floor is littered with my trophies, sacrifices to the Horned One; a noose from the man they thought was me, the pet sacrificed to keep the farm safe in the night, the lamb whose blood is above the doorway. Finally, a living dove in my grasp, cooing as my thumb rubbed its small head.. A feast of those who deserved to live, and the one who dined on their opportunity.

I unfurl the ritual with my free hand, caring not to damage such a treasure. I speak his name, I speak his secret name, and I plead for his presence. For a moment, nothing happened, then the light in the room seemed to breathe. An inhale pulling the light from the room, and an exhale bringing it back, and an inhale pulling to closer to the makeshift altar, and exhale wheezing a heavy weight in the room, then finally an inhale to pull the darkness in; leaving but a single candle to light the space I am in.

I could hear the floor creek behind me. A step. My eyes were locked on the candle, in a moment I convinced myself it was my last lifetime to safety. Another creek, another step. Sweat beaded on my brow, it was like an illness overtook me; I was burning and freezing at the same time. Another creek, another step. The candle flickered and the white of the dove in my palms showed itself, I clamped my hands and twisted my grip. A moment of struggle and then peace.

A weight was lifted, and I realized I had not been breathing. I gasped for air on the floor of that small room, struggling for life. A sacrifice of life for my own had been accepted.

A creek, a step. I looked forward past the candle and I saw two legs in fine dress facing towards me. “My lord,” I gasped out. “Thank you for listening to my call.” I was unsure of what to say, I knew what I wanted but wasn’t sure how long the Scapegoat would listen. The words simply fell from my lips. I told him my story, how long I’d followed his teachings, how many I had betrayed for my survival in his name. How now am the creator of scapegoats for pleasure, not for need. After all the time I’d suffered, I’d grown to fully embody his works and wished to gain a greater power.

There was a long silence while I looked at his feet. The lamb to my right was suddenly lifted up into the darkness. A low growl echoed in the room, not unlike how my old adopted father would sound when met with an annoyance. Then a whisper.

“For your faith and devotion I can grant thee power, follower. A power that would drive the minds of man to oblivion should they be too weak to wield it. A torment on the soul of those too meek to claim it. For a piece of your soul, I may grant thee this dark madness. For a piece of your soul, I may grant thee this… opportunity.”

“Freely, I give you a part of me, my lord. Eagerly I take what you have to teach, my master.”

An eye fell from the darkness, I recognized it as one from the lamb. There was no taste to it, just the pop it made as I took it in as someone dying of hunger. I could not describe it as losing something, more like the realization that it had never been there in the first place. I could feel something missing; was this what it felt like I wondered, to lose your soul?

The voice once again whispered in the darkness. “You’ve chosen well Jehan, with this sacrifice I grant thee what you’ve most wanted; the power to play forever, your never ending game of bandits and sheriffs. Pray to me with those who lose, and I shall await for the rest of your soul once you have been bested.”

The light returned, but the warmth did not. The candle flickered again and faltered. So the games began.