The puppeteer’s doll swayed like a hangman without a rope, jerking from side to side without control.

  The girl’s voice remained sweet, almost tender, but the words spilling from the marionette’s mouth were pure poison.

  “Thousands of years ago,” it said, “humans built towers that touched the clouds. They lit their paths without magic, using only machines that devoured the sun and spat out light. They flew without wings. They split the seas with iron beasts that roared louder than any dragon.”

  “Imagine it, little ones. A world without mana. Without spells. Without superior races. Only humans… and their infinite arrogance.”

  The doll snapped its head toward the children with a dry creak.

  “Some tales say a meteorite wiped them from the sky. Others, that they were the ones who opened doors to worlds they should never have touched. And there are those who swear it was their own hands that tightened around their throats.”

  “The truth no longer matters. What matters is this: the humans vanished. And from their ashes, we were born… those whom they contemptuously call ‘humans.’”

  The marionette tilted its head, as if staring directly at us.

  “Two legs. Two arms. Red blood. Hearts that beat. Feelings that make us weak. They say a cheap sword splits us in two. That we are small, fragile, expendable. That we are the echo of a race that went extinct out of pride.”

  “But listen well, children.”

  The doll stopped abruptly. The girl’s voice dropped, becoming a mere whisper.

  “We do not feel inferior.”

  “And you… never, ever, must you feel inferior.”

  “If they call us trash, one day we will show them that trash can burn. That even if we are one against a hundred, one against a thousand, we are better. That we will be the kings of a world that now only knows blood and ashes. And we shall rule with honor… and with glory.”

  The doll jerked one last time and fell limp, as if its throat had been slit.

  Silence.

  Tsk.

  Today was supposed to be the tale of the hero who stopped the calamity. The one who sacrificed his life so a few humans could escape the clutches of the invading races. The one who gave hope.

  Not this.

  Not a cry of rebellion wrapped in pretty words.

  I looked at the other children. Some had glistening eyes. Others had clenched fists. Dylan and his gang smirked, as if they knew it was all a joke.

  Au.

  My swollen eye throbbed painfully as I scanned them. The inflamed flesh burned as if someone had pressed a glowing coal against me. I had to bow my head to keep from falling onto the moldy earth.

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  Why is it like this?

  We are outcasts. Crushed by our own weakness. They call us “humans” like someone stepping on a cockroach. But… if we are so weak, why do they hunt us? Why do they fear us? Us?

  HA.

  I don’t think so.

  How could they fear us? We are the dregs of the world. Not even the heroes born in these lands could do more than raise shields. They never dealt the final blow.

  Heroes…

  The word sticks in my throat like bile. It’s the same bile I felt when I looked at the man I had just beheaded. His crime? Raping and murdering his own daughter. We aren’t so different, are we, Auri di Astrea? Born in a golden cradle. Chosen by fate. Killed by someone who enjoyed the pain.

  The words of the High Executioner returned to my mind like a mantra:

  “Boy. You are neither child nor adult. Live by this belief and you will not suffer.”

  “Doing harm is not wrong. Killing is not wrong. Living is not wrong.”

  “The only evil is those two crimson moons.”

  He raised his hand toward the sky and closed his fist, as if he could crush them.

  “Kill. Because in this world, living is a sin. And dying is salvation.”

  “We are the good ones.”

  “And they… are the bad ones.”

  Those words clashed with what I was seeing now. I had never seen the puppet girl speak like this. The previous play was about the farmer who saved humanity from hunger with his gift for the earth.

  This was different.

  It was surely because of the new “Mayor” of Wester. One of the two human citadels east of the Aethelgard Empire, in the Sea of Ashes. We survived on a diet of siren meat and rotten fish.

  When he arrived, he said:

  “We are heroes even if we have no magic. We can be strong in this red world. We can raise spears and fists against those who humiliate us.”

  “Human brothers. Let us resist. Let us carry a glory that lasts for decades in the history books.”

  “Fight. Dance upon their graves. Kill anyone who opposes us.”

  The doll remained motionless on the ground. The children applauded timidly. Some with rage. Not me. I only felt my eye throb. And a dry laugh escaped from deep within me.

  HA.

  Glory. Honor. Words for children who still believe in fairy tales. I already knew what was real: blood on my hands, a stolen name, and two moons that never stop bleeding.

  I had seen enough of this stupidity.

  I was about to take a half-step forward, to finally leave that moldy corner, when the air changed. A new scent—sweet, artificial, and thick—cut through the stench of misery. The girl’s melodious voice rang out again.

  “Boys…” she said, sweet as poisoned honey. “I have a surprise for you.”

  She leaned toward her brown satchel, adorned with dancing figures embroidered in red thread. She pulled out something small: round, glistening spheres the color of fresh blood, fixed to thin sticks.

  “This is called strawberry candy,” she explained, twirling one between her fingers. “It’s a fruit that grows on the outskirts of Iron Solstice, the second human citadel. One of our clients gave it to us for last week’s show. I don’t like sweets… I prefer salty things. So I thought: why not give them to you, cute little boys?”

  Something was wrong.

  Too wrong.

  My swollen eye throbbed violently, as if the inflamed flesh knew before I did. The air smelled of damp earth, childhood sweat, and something metallic I couldn’t quite place.

  “I want one! Please, give me one!” one of the boys shouted.

  And then, like hungry dogs, they rushed toward her. Dylan and his gang were at the front, pushing with laughter and elbows. The girl smiled—that perfect, warm smile that didn’t reach her eyes—and handed them out one by one.

  “Enjoy it, children,” she said in a soft, almost maternal voice. “Because it is a flavor you might never taste again in your lives.”

  The children shoved the candies into their mouths without hesitation. Some closed their eyes in pleasure. Others laughed with full mouths, the sticky red staining their lips and teeth.

  I stood still.

  I didn’t move.

  Not because I didn’t want the candy.

  But because, for the first time in a long while, I felt a shiver that didn’t come from the pain in my eye or the humiliation. It came from her. From that smile that seemed to say: “Eat, little ones. Eat and forget everything else.”

  Maybe it was paranoia. Maybe it was just a candy.

  But in this world, nothing is just a candy.

  And no food is ever given without asking for something in return.

  Author’s Note:

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