Hot sun beat down on the tiny village that, although it was by far the warmest part of the day, was still bustling with activity. Not much more than a tiny hamlet in the middle of nowhere, the village was modest. Smallish circular buildings made of clay, mud, and straw lined the unpaved streets, which led out into the surrounding farmland. On the horizon, a dense and deadly jungle loomed, completely cutting them off from the outside world. Despite the isolation, the villagers were quite happy. They lived in peace.

A group of children darted through the streets, weaving through the crowds of adults going about their daily business in a serpentine motion. They moved with purpose and excitement, a destination obviously in mind. The young boys and girls, dark skin slick with sweat, were off to see the Elder. The Elder always had a story to tell, always had knowledge to share—and once every seven sunrises, they were allowed to visit him for a tale.

Laughing and singing, the seven children veered off of the dirt path into the farmlands, most of them waist-deep in the wheat stalks. In no time at all, they had reached the edge of the fields and stood staring into the depths of the jungle. The eldest boy took the lead, shepherding the other six youths along an animal track. They were not nervous, no, but they all had the sense of mind to be cautious. The jungle was a dangerous place.

Soon they reached the Elder's hut, a squat round structure of crumbling mud and baked adobe, half overgrown by vines and ferns. The thatched roof was in desperate need of repair. Motioning for the other children to wait, the eldest boy went up to the crooked bamboo door and knocked three times. Slowly, it creaked open to reveal a hunched man with extremely dark skin and platinum silver hair. He leaned heavily on a wooden staff and wore a deep purple robe, which hung off of his frail frame as though it were a few sizes too large. He smiled a toothless grin and motioned for the children to come inside.

The hut was warm and stuffy, the air thick with incense. In the center of the room, a fire burned, with eight cushions placed around it. Many hangings covered the walls along with tribal masks and tools that one might associate with voodoo. A machete sat propped against a shelf that was heavy with potion ingredients, and a birdcage housing a large black owl was suspended from the ceiling near a makeshift bed of blankets and straw. The specimen regarded them carefully with large golden eyes, but made no sound.

The children gathered around the fire, each taking a seat on one of the cushions. Slowly, the Elder made his way over to them. A young girl with long braids helped him sit down. For a while, they sat in silence, the fire crackling in front of them. All eyes were on the Elder, gazes intent and eager. After what seemed like hours, he spoke.

"Inside of all of us, there are two beasts. One is made of light, pure and innocent, what we might define as 'good'. The other is darkness, a force we see as corrupt and horrible—evil, if you will."

The children nodded, understanding.

"They are constantly battling one another, constantly willing themselves to come out on top. They define the inner conflict within us; a battle between what we perceive as light and dark."

The children sat in silence. Then, one spoke up in a squeaky voice—a small boy with large eyes. "Which one wins?"

The Elder inhaled deeply, then exhaled, contemplating the question carefully.

"Whichever one you feed."