The fog never lifted from the Valley of Wool. It clung to the ground like a second fleece, damp and cold, muffling the sound of hooves and hiding the horizon. There were over five hundred souls in the pen, a sea of shifting cream and off-white, pressing against each other for warmth.

  But warmth was a scarce commodity.

  In the center of the farm stood the Shepherd. He was tall, impossibly so, his limbs jointed with audible clicks and clacks. His face was smooth, polished, devoid of eyes, nose, or mouth. He did not speak. He only waited.

  In the shadows of the barn, hidden from the flock, stood the Black Sheep.

  There were four of them. But they did not know this.

  Each believed they were the only one. Each wore their darkness like a secret crown. They believed they were special. Chosen. Dangerous. They could not see their own color, nor the color of the others—for in this valley, all sheep were born colorblind. But they felt different. They felt the itch of ambition in their wool. They felt the hunger for control.

  "The flock is weak," whispered the First Black Sheep, alone in the dark.

  "They eat the grass too slowly. They clutter the pen," bleated the Second, from a different corner of the barn.

  "Prune the garden," said the Third, voice low, fearing discovery.

  "The Shepherd will do it," concluded the Fourth, speaking to the wood.

  They did not need to see the colors. They only needed to point.

  They would nudge the Wooden Shepherd from the shadows, whispering into the hollows of his carved ears. They came separately. They left separately. They never met.

  "That one. The one bleating too loud."

  "That one. It stands too close to the fence. It looks for escape."

  "That one. It looks sad. Sadness is contagious."

  The Shepherd would twitch.

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  His arm would rise. The axe was not metal, but hard oak, heavy on weight..

  He did not know why he struck. He did not know who he struck. He only knew the Voice.

  Thump.

  Another white sheep fell. The others would flinch, then shuffle closer together.

  A murmur of relief would ripple through the flock.

  "It wasn't me."

  "I am still safe."

  "I am white. I am good. I am safe."

  They did not know they were blind.

  They did not know the Shepherd was blind.

  They did not know the Black Sheep were blind.

  And the Black Sheep did not know each other.

  Each Black Sheep watched the executions with a sense of grim satisfaction, believing they alone were the architects.

  "I control the life and death," thought the First.

  "I am the only one who sees the truth," thought the Second.

  They plotted to take over the farm completely. To drive the Shepherd like a chariot.

  "Once the weak are gone, I will rule," each whispered to themselves.

  But one night, the fog grew thicker.

  The First Black Sheep listened. He heard a whisper from the other side of the barn.

  He froze. He thought he was the only one who spoke to the Shepherd.

  "Who is there?" he bleated into the mist.

  Only the wind answered.

  Or perhaps another whisper, too faint to catch.

  A chill went through him that had nothing to do with the wind.

  If there were others... were they allies? Or rivals?

  If he could not see the black... how did he know he was black?

  What if he was white? What if the ones he killed were like him?

  What if the Shepherd wasn't listening to him... but simply reacting to the fear in the air?

  The Shepherd stood in the center, motionless.

  His wooden head tilted slightly, as if listening to a wind the sheep could not feel.

  He was a doll. A puppet.

  But who was holding the strings?

  The Four thought they held the strings. But they never touched the same string.

  The Flock thought the Shepherd held the strings.

  But the strings were made of lies.

  The next morning, the Fourth Black Sheep stepped forward.

  He pointed at a young lamb.

  "It looks suspicious," he whispered to the Shepherd.

  He looked around, expecting to see the others. Expecting to see a nod of approval. A shared glance.

  There was no one. Only the fog.

  The Shepherd raised the axe.

  The flock held its breath.

  The Fourth Black Sheep waited for the thud.

  But he looked down at his own hooves.

  In the mist, his wool looked gray. Or maybe white. Or maybe black.

  He realized, with a sinking heart, that the color did not exist.

  It was only a story they told themselves to justify the blood.

  And he was telling it alone.

  The axe fell.

  The lamb fell.

  There was no cheer. Only silence.

  The Shepherd returned to his spot, wooden joints clicking.

  The flock shuffled, relieved again.

  "It is not my turn," they whispered.

  "It is not my turn."

  "It is not my turn."

  And the Four continued to whisper, trying to control a world they could not see, commanding a doll that could not feel, ruling over a flock that could not know. They never met. They never knew.

  The farm spun on.

  Blind leading blind.

  Alone in the fog.