At the very bottom of Dark Kingdom's hierarchy, far beneath the reach of lords' decrees and gladiators' screams, stands a weathered wooden hut. It has no windows - light is no guest here; it has no business within these walls. Behind an ancient, massive oak table layered with centuries of dust sits a motionless figure: a Blind Orc. A merchant with no buyers.
His eyelids are sewn tightly shut with coarse thread. He deprived himself of sight so that external illusions would not distract him from his ultimate ritual.
Above his head hang chimes on thin fishing lines - he hung them himself, crafted from the purest crystals. They do not ring with the wind; instead, they vibrate under the crushing weight of his thoughts. Before him on the table lie mounds of gold coins, rare artifacts, and other treasures amassed over a long, bleak lifetime. By touch alone, he remembers the cold temperature and distinct relief of every single coin. He handles them for hours, counting them, shifting them from one pile to another.
But what is the true meaning of this accumulation? The surrounding kingdom has long been deserted. The streets are dead, the castles have crumbled to dust, and the throne room is choked with black moss. Currency has lost its fundamental magic - there is nothing left to buy. There is no one to purchase his gold, and no one to receive it to alter his low-caste status. His wealth is his life sentence. His treasures are the very walls of his prison.
Whether this is a prolonged waking dream, or reality itself has dissolved into this endless, ghostly fog, remains unknown. The Orc is trapped in the eternal cycle of a cult of hoarding. He remains a merchant simply because he has forgotten how to be anything else.
Through the thick, stale smoke filling the hut, the crystal chimes seem to silently whisper into the night thicket: “Look at him. And look at yourself. Do you not also surrender your strength, your sight, and your soul to the struggle for phantom numbers and shiny metal discs? You hoard them, severing yourself from the living world, locking yourself away in your own windowless mental hut. But remember: a day will come when your kingdom fades into emptiness. And in that final silence, all your gold will be nothing but a pile of cold, meaningless iron that cannot save you.”
(Fine Art Photography. Created in September 2026).
