The night was heavy.
The room smelled of mildew and extinguished candle wax. The breathing of the other boys filled the space – some deep, others light, like patient waves on a calm sea. The moon crept through the gaps in the window, drawing pale stripes on the wooden floor.
I lay on my back, eyes open, the stone ceiling wavering in the half‑darkness. Mira slept beside me, her curly hair spread on the pillow, her hand closed around my finger.
I didn't let go.
Why? I didn't know. I didn't want to know.
Sleep came without warning. A black wave that swallowed me before I could resist.
---
### FRAGMENT. THE PARK.
The swing creaks. Small hands grip the iron chains. The sky is dark blue – always dark blue, even by day, even when the sun should shine. There are no clouds. There are never any clouds.
I am alone. The other children left hours ago. Their mothers called them for dinner, for baths, for bedtime stories. No one called me.
My mother is dead. My father doesn't know I went out.
Seven years old. Seven years old and I have already learned that the world does not wait for children.
The swing creaks. The park is empty. The urge to go home is a stone in my stomach, but home is a place of silence and gazes that I cannot meet. I prefer the park. I prefer the creak of iron. I prefer the dark blue of the sky.
A woman comes out of an alley.
I didn't see her arrive. She was just there, suddenly, as if she had been born from the shadows. Dark hair, painted eyes, tight clothes that showed more skin than they should. She smelled of cheap perfume and something sweet – sweets, perhaps.
"Hello, little boy," she said, in a voice that tried to be soft. "Are you all alone?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Of what?" I asked. "Of shadows? I'm not afraid of anything."
She laughed. The laugh was strange – sharp, like breaking glass.
"Do you like sweets?" She showed her hand. In her palm was a small pink wrapper. "I have one for you. Very sweet. Very good."
"My mother told me not to take sweets from strangers."
"Your mother?" She tilted her head. "Where is she now?"
Silence answered for me.
"Poor little thing…" She took another step closer. "Come here. I won't hurt you. I just want to give you a sweet."
Her kindness seemed genuine. Her eyes – not the painted ones, but the real ones underneath – looked like those of someone who wanted to help. Maybe she was lonely too. Maybe she had lost someone as well.
"Thank you, ma'am," I said, and I approached.
Her hand touched my shoulder. Cold. The fingers were long, bony, and they tightened.
"You're so handsome," she whispered. "So handsome…"
It was only then that I understood. The sweet was not a sweet. The kindness was not kindness. Her eyes did not want to help. They wanted something else. Something I could not name, but that my body recognised as a threat.
I tried to step back. Her hand tightened.
"Don't be afraid," she said, her voice different now, less soft, more urgent. "It will be quick. You'll like it."
I did not like it.
A man came out of the same alley. Dishevelled hair, alcohol on his breath, a dagger in his hand. I recognised him. It was the same man. The man who killed my mother.
"Let the boy go," he said, his voice slurred. "He's mine."
The woman released me. I fell to the ground, my hands burning on the rough pavement.
"Come here, boy. Come here, and I'll treat you the way I treated your mother."
The fear was gone.
I don't know when. I don't know how. But the fear evaporated, and in its place something hot, red, urgent grew.
My mother's dagger. The one she dropped. The one I kept.
My hand found it. The hilt was small, but it was enough.
The man lunged. I did too.
The blood gushed warm. It ran through my fingers, along my arms, across my chest.
Warmth.
Comfort.
The man fell to his knees first. Then to his side.
The woman screamed. I silenced her for good.
The park was empty again. The swing had stopped creaking.
I looked at my hands. They were red. Blood dripped to the ground like rain.
I felt no disgust. No fear. No regret.
I felt warmth.
I felt comfort.
---
I woke up sweating.
My bare chest gleamed in the dark. My hand still held Mira's – the girl kept sleeping, oblivious to the world, oblivious to the monster beside her.
I got up slowly. The sheet was damp. My shirt stuck to my back.
"Just a dream," I whispered.
But the lie didn't stick. I knew it wasn't just a dream. It was the memory. The truth. The blood flowing, warm, comfortable.
I sat on the edge of the bed. My bare feet touched the cold floor. The other boys were asleep. No one saw me get up.
I put on my tunic in the dark. I didn't light a candle.
I needed water.
---
The corridor was empty.
The torches on the walls had almost burned down – only orange embers remained, dying slowly. My footsteps echoed on the stone. The ceiling was high, the shadows long.
'Don't go back to sleep', I thought. 'The body rests. The mind doesn't.'
I went down the stairs in silence. The south wing, where the kitchens were, smelled of stale bread and dried herbs. The wooden door creaked when I pushed it open.
There was little light. A candle on the counter. And a girl with silver hair, standing, her hand inside a glass jar.
Luna.
She didn't see me at first. She was focused on taking out a sweet – one of those little caramels that Professor Lara left in the pantry time and again. The sugar gleamed in the candlelight. Her mouth was full.
I stopped in the doorway. I watched.
She put another sweet in her mouth. Chewed slowly. Then another. And another.
"You're going to get sick," I said.
Luna spun around. Her light eyes widened. She covered her mouth with her hand – a childish gesture, almost comical.
"Zirinos!" she murmured, her voice muffled by the sweets. "You… you can't sleep either?"
"No."
"What did you come for?"
"Water."
"Oh." She took her hand away, swallowed. "I came… to eat."
"I can see that."
She blushed. The candlelight made her silver hair even brighter.
"Don't tell anyone."
"Who would listen to me? I have no friends."
Luna didn't know what to answer. She looked away at the jar, hesitated, then offered him a sweet.
"Do you want one?"
"No."
"Are you always so serious?"
"I am."
"That must be tiring."
"It is."
She sighed. Put another sweet in her mouth, chewed, swallowed.
"Sit down," I said. "Don't just stand there like a statue."
I sat on the wooden bench against the wall. Luna hesitated for two seconds, then sat beside me – not too close, not too far.
Silence settled. The candle flickered. The wind outside whistled through the cracks.
"Do you like the academy?" she asked finally.
"It's better than the cell."
"Cell?"
"Where I was imprisoned."
"Oh." She didn't ask more. Chewed another sweet. "I like it. I like the classes. I like Professor Lara, and Professor Endomir, and the library. Alice is my favourite."
"Alice is a good person," I agreed. "That's rare."
"What is rare?"
"Good people."
Luna looked at me. Her light, innocent eyes tried to decipher something I didn't want to show.
"Are you a good person, Zirinos?"
"I appear to be."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the only answer I have."
She didn't insist. She put another sweet in her mouth.
"My mother says people show what they want others to see," she said, her voice lower. "She says I'm naive because I believe everything."
"Your mother is right."
"Sometimes. Other times, no."
"For example?"
Luna played with the sweet between her fingers.
"My mother says my stepfather likes her. And that my aunt likes living with us. But I see things. I see the way he looks at my aunt. The way she smiles when he's not looking."
"And does that bother you?"
"I don't know." She swallowed the sweet. "Maybe. Sometimes I don't want to see. But I see anyway."
I looked at the wall. I said:
"Seeing is a punishment. The more you see, the more you know. The more you know, the more you suffer."
"Then why do you keep seeing?"
"Because I can't close my eyes. I've tried. I can't."
Luna fell silent. The jar of sweets was almost empty.
"You've seen bad things," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I have."
"And… were you hurt?"
For the first time in many years, I hesitated. The lie was on the tip of my tongue – the comfortable lie, the protective lie, the lie I used every day.
But no. Not for this girl with light eyes and silver hair who ate sweets at midnight.
"Yes," I answered. "And I hurt others. Many."
"Does that make you a bad person?"
"What do you think?"
She didn't answer. She just looked at me with eyes full of something I couldn't name. Pity? Curiosity? Fear?
A little of all three, perhaps.
"I think you don't know," she said finally. "I think you still don't know what you are."
I stood up.
"Water. I need to drink."
I went to the counter, took the jug, filled a glass. I drank slowly, my back turned to Luna.
"You're strange," she said from the bench.
"I've been told that."
"You're handsome, but you're strange."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I made it one."
Luna sighed. She put the last sweet in her mouth.
"Will you go back to sleep?"
"Yes."
"Will you be able to?"
"No. But I'll try."
She stood up too. She fixed her hair, brushed the crumbs off her tunic.
"Tomorrow there's a magic class," she said. "Alice is going to teach us how to make wind shields."
"The chosen ones only watch."
"Yes. But it's beautiful to see. The colours. The shapes. The mana shining."
"Are you a poet, Luna?"
"Sometimes. At night, when I can't sleep."
I almost smiled.
"Good night, Luna."
"Good night, Zirinos. And… thank you."
"For what?"
"For not lying to me."
I didn't answer. I just left the kitchen, crossed the dark corridor, climbed the stairs in silence.
The lie I didn't tell – the small truth, a crack in the wall – weighed on my chest.
'Don't do that again', I thought. 'Weakness is dangerous. Weakness kills.'
But the image of Luna's light eyes did not leave me.
---
The room was still dark. The other boys slept. I sat on the bed, my feet on the cold floor.
Mira slept peacefully. Her curly hair, her half‑open mouth, her hand closed on the empty space where I had been.
I watched her.
'She trusts me', I thought. 'Like Luna. Like Ander. Like all the others I've deceived.'
'And I'm going to kill her.'
The truth didn't hurt. The truth never hurt. What hurt was the absence of pain.
I lay down. I closed my eyes.
The dream did not return.
But the blood was still warm. And comfortable.