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DATE:3th of December, the 48th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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The sun outside woke me up.
My body felt heavy. My mind, foggy. But there wasn't time to dwell.
I made my bed before getting changed. Just as I was tightening the strap of my backpack, I heard my mother's footsteps in the hallway. She opened the door a fraction, checking to make sure I was awake before continuing. Not a word.
She didn't need to say it. Her rules were clear: people who woke up late didn't deserve breakfast. I followed her downstairs, the faint creak of each wooden step echoing through the stillness.
My father was already in the butchery setting things up for the day so my mother put me some soup and bread for breakfast. I did my prayers for Saturn together with her before eating, keeping my composure and manners. I would get beat up if I made a mess or hurried. It is a sin to hurry the process of eating. Food is sacred, especially if it is only by the gods mercy that we eat. After finishing I helped her clean the wooden bowls before picking up my backpack and exiting into the road.
I made sure to keep a vigilant pace to not meet the local troublemakers, strolling towards the school. I would get beat up if I were late.
But a thought nagged at the back of my mind. What were those dreams? Me, a killer? All those years of murder and pain? Preposterous. Why would someone would someone willingly subject themselves to such an experience? Whatever. I dreamt worse. I got to the school just a few moments before the guardian closed the door at the gate. The other kids making their way in the distance weren't so lucky.
My first class was an independent study time. A teacher would patrol the hallways so we were supposed to stay in our benches until the bell rang for our next class. It was technically supposed to be our Mathematics class, but the teacher was sick with pneumonia since last week and they couldn't find someone to replace him.
The sun filtered through the classroom windows, casting long beams across the floor. I sat in my usual corner seat, my back straight, my hands resting protectively over my backpack to keep it from wandering hands. Around me, small clusters of my classmates were already whispering and snickering, their voices weaving together like the hum of insects.
Thugs, all of them.
The class captain, Matteo, was in the other corner of the room, his clique forming a tight circle around him and keeping watch of any incoming teachers as he delivered sharp kicks to someone on the floor. There was a low chance of that because most of the teachers on guard didn't bother to patrol, but there was the possibility that it was our history teacher's turn and he was really vicious. He beat up anyone he saw breaking the rules. I spared a discreet glance.
Tobias.
The boy was curled into himself, his thin frame offering no resistance as Matteo's foot connected with his ribs. Tobias had always been passionate about reading, the kind of boy who thrived on knowledge but lacked the social instincts to survive here.
"He should've known better," I muttered under my breath. Matteo wasn't the kind of guy to pick on someone for no reason.
A heavy hand clapped down on my shoulder, and I turned to see Damascus, one of Matteo's thugs—and my neighbor. He was built like an ox, his fists as heavy as his wit.
"Kassius," he said with a grin, gesturing toward the corner. "Get a load of this idiot."
I kept my expression neutral. "What'd he do now?"
Damascus chuckled darkly. "Tried to charge Matteo for doing his homework."
"Bold of him," I replied dryly, though my stomach churned slightly at the display.
"Bold and stupid," Damascus shot back. "The son of a scribe's assistant, no less. Who does he think he is?" Damascus was right. Wrong to question his status because of class because he himself was the lowly son of a baker, but Tobias was under the protection of our captain from the other classes. There was no need to add friction to that.
Tobias's groans continued from the corner, each punch and kick met with a fresh surge of anger from Matteo. Damascus leaned closer, lowering his voice. "But you know why Matteo's like this, right?"
I shook my head.
"Lucia from 8C," he said with a smirk. "She told him his breath smelled. Rejected him in front of everyone."
I sighed inwardly. Matteo was always fuming about something. The son of a councilman, he had enough allowance to buy sweets and still somehow couldn't buy a clue about how to handle rejection.
"He's taking it out on Tobias?"
"Who else?" Damascus shrugged, shaking his head. "The kid thought it'd be funny to remind Matteo about it." Tobias was really dumb in some ways. I suppose this is what happens when you don't have social awareness. I learned from all the beatings I took that there is no point in goading your opponent when you are losing.
Damascus then went on about what a shame it was because Lucia had a very big ass and whatever. I wasn't really listening.
---
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor drew my attention.
A girl had risen from her seat two rows in front of me, her small frame stiff with defiance. She was petite, her loose uniform making her appear even smaller, yet there was something in the way she carried herself—calm, composed, unyielding.
Her hair was a striking shade of green, cascading in soft waves that caught the sunlight. Her vibrant green eyes locked onto the scene in the corner, her expression unreadable but firm. Who was this girl? I don't remember her in my class. I would certainly keep in mind someone with such unique characteristics. Green hair? Can humas even naturally have it?
She told Matteo to stop. Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a blade.
The air shifted.
Matteo stopped mid-kick, his head snapping toward her. "Mind your business," he growled. In a way he did obey her.
But she didn't listen. Instead, she pushed through the circle, her presence so commanding that his lackeys—Damascus included—hesitated to stop her. I didn't understand how she was so bold.
---
When she reached Matteo, she caught his wrist mid-swing. He froze, his muscles tensing as he tried to yank his hand free, but her grip held firm.
"Let go," Matteo spat, his face reddening with effort.
She didn't.
When he swung his other hand, she caught it too. The room fell deathly silent as she stared him down, her expression unbothered, almost serene. Slowly, and with deliberate force, she pushed his arms downward, bringing him to his knees. It was so unusual for something like this to be happening, I almost thought about pinching myself. It didn't feel real.
Matteo's lackeys watched in stunned silence, their confusion mirrored in the faces of everyone in the room.
Damascus started toward her, but before he could close the distance, someone shouted from the hallway. "Figaro's on duty!"
The spell broke.
The lackeys scrambled back to their seats, Tobias clutching his side as he staggered to his desk. The girl released Matteo's wrists, giving him one final look before returning to her seat.
Matteo's fists clenched at his sides, his face twisted with fury, but he didn't move.
---
I couldn't take my eyes off her.
Who was she?
She felt... different. Beautiful, yes, but there was something more. Something about the way she stared down Matteo, unflinching, unyielding.
For the first time in a long while, I felt... something.
---
The door slammed open, and Mr. Figaro stormed in, his worn coat billowing behind him like a banner of faded authority.
Despite its frayed edges and faded fabric, he wore it with pride, as though it symbolized his self-proclaimed status as the last true patriot of Ventian history.
"Who was it?" he bellowed, his fist raised in righteous fury.
Every head in the room snapped up. Matteo stepped forward reluctantly, his jaw tight. "No one was making noise, sir," he said, his voice strained but calm. I could tell he was still seething, but mentioning the green-haired girl wouldn't serve him now. It wasn't worth angering Figaro over a petty squabble—especially when the blame would inevitably come back to him.
Figaro's eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me! You think I don't know what goes on in this... den of degenerates?" His voice cracked with indignation. "Ventia! Once a mighty empire, reduced to this puny peninsula, her children nothing but useless maggots with no future!"
None of us moved.
Figaro's shoulders heaved as he scanned the room one last time before turning sharply toward the door. "Disgraceful," he muttered, slamming it shut behind him.
For a moment, no one spoke. It was very tense and I feared another fight breaking out. It never came as the teacher was waiting outside, but I was still uncomfortable.
---
Eventually, the bell rang, and my classmates began shuffling out of their seats. Surprisingly, no one approached the green-haired girl—they avoided her entirely, as though her presence had unnerved even Matteo's lackeys. Were they planning something?
Tobias, still clutching his ribs, approached her cautiously.
"I suppose I should thank you," he mumbled, his face flushed. "But you shouldn't have done that. A girl like yo—"
She cut him off with a sharp gesture, pointing directly at his mouth.
"A girl like me? I don't fear people like him," she said calmly, her tone carrying an edge of authority.
Tobias's face reddened further, his embarrassment turning to quiet anger as he shook his head and left the classroom without another word.
---
I stayed behind, pulling out my books for the next class. Unified Alphabet. It wasn't particularly interesting, but it was easier to focus on that than the tension still hanging in the air.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girl approach my desk.
I froze.
She was even more striking up close. Her green hair, cut in an ascending pattern, shimmered faintly in the light. Her eyes sparkled—literally sparkled. What kind of human had eyes like that?
She smiled faintly, her expression strangely familiar. "I'm glad you're alright," she said gently, her voice almost... affectionate. "You look great so young."
I blinked, confused. "What?"
"Don't you remember me?" She tilted her head, her smile faltering slightly. "It's me, Emily."
The name sent a jolt through me, but I quickly reined it in. "Emily? Who even has a name like that?"
She paused, her eyes widening slightly before she covered her mouth with her hand. "Ah... I see," she said softly, her tone suddenly distant. "Sorry about that."
She stepped back toward her seat, her movements stiff and subdued.
---
I stared after her, a strange discomfort settling in my chest. With the edge of my vision, I caught some of the girls in the room murmuring to each other, their glances darting between me and the green-haired girl.
What was she trying to accomplish? Did she see me talking with Damascus and think I was someone useful? Or am I overthinking it?
I looked back at her seat. She was hunched over, staring blankly at her desk. There was something unsettling about her expression—a mix of sadness and resignation.
Her sadness shouldn't have bothered me. But it did.
I sighed, pulling the Unified Alphabet book closer. This was pointless. The next hour would pass, and with it, this ridiculous distraction.
Mister Nathan strode into the room, his coat pristine and his footsteps deliberate.
Of all the teachers, he stood apart. He was a Normandian—an outsider—carrying himself with the composed authority of someone who had nothing to prove. Yet his presence always felt cold, sinister. Where Figaro burned with passion for Ventian history, Nathan's focus was on erasing it entirely.
"Forget your meaningless pagan rituals," he often said. "The Unified language, the Unified way—that is progress. That is civilization."
It was no surprise that he carried a pistol for protection. He had no shortage of enemies.
Still, his class came and went without incident. Tobias nursed his bruises silently, Matteo stared at his desk with a simmering fury, and the green-haired girl remained an enigma, her gaze calm and focused.
---
It wasn't until our hour-long lunch break that things began to simmer again.
I had barely opened my book when Damascus and a few of Matteo's thugs surrounded my table. Their presence loomed, their expressions tight with barely concealed frustration.
"You're friends with her, aren't you?" Damascus asked, his voice sharp.
I looked up, unimpressed. "You, of all people, should know I don't talk to anyone outside my family. And she's definitely not one of us."
Damascus's jaw tightened. "You sure about that? Matteo's not happy."
"Then ask him to deal with it himself," I replied evenly, turning back to my book.
I could feel the tension radiating off them, their frustration palpable. Matteo must have been desperate—if not humiliated—after what happened. But I wasn't about to pick sides. My father had forbidden me from getting involved in school politics, and I wasn't about to give him another excuse to lecture or beat me.
Eventually, Damascus sighed, muttering something under his breath before leading the others away.
---
I thought that was the end of it.
But as I walked toward the school gates to leave, something caught my attention.
In an alleyway near the exit, I saw the green-haired girl being dragged—or rather, *escorted*—by a group of boys. Matteo's gang.
The alley was infamous, a spot for clandestine brawls and far from any prying eyes. The houses nearby were owned by plague victims, abandoned for years, their windows dark and empty.
I hesitated.
She was strong—impossibly so—but there were at least twenty of them. No matter how fast or skilled, even she couldn't win against those odds.
And what if she lost?
Could I really call myself a man if I walked away now? Probably not. But that wasn't why I followed.
Truthfully, I was curious.
---
By the time I reached the alley, the fight had begun.
Matteo was already on the ground, clutching a bloody nose, his expression twisted in pain and disbelief.
Damascus was still standing, struggling to fend off the girl's strikes. She moved with a speed and precision I had never seen before, her form a blur even in the cumbersome, ill-fitting uniform.
Then came the kick.
Her foot connected with Damascus's temple with a force that made me recoil. His body fell like a stone, hitting the ground with a loud *thud*.
The remaining boys hesitated, their anger tinged with fear. But their fury won out. They scrambled to surround her, their movements frantic and uncoordinated.
It was a useless effort.
---
She moved like a storm.
Even surrounded, she ducked and weaved through their attacks, her small frame slipping between them effortlessly. Her fists and feet struck with precision, each blow sending another boy sprawling to the ground.
It wasn't just strength—it was something else. Something unnatural.
I watched, transfixed, as the gang that had once ruled the school met their match in a girl half their size.
After she finished, she turned her head and noticed my presence, but didn't comment on it. She went to the center of the pack and collected her belonging. Her leather briefcase gleamed faintly in the fading light as she disappeared around the corner, a relic of a world beyond these crumbling streets. Wealthy? Maybe. Or dangerous. Either way, she didn't belong here.
Neither did I, yet here I was.
I sprinted the rest of the way home, my ribs aching with every step. The butcher shop loomed ahead, its sign—Iani Meats—swaying on rusted chains. The metallic tang of blood and sawdust hit me before I reached the door.
Too late.
My mother stood at the family altar, her back rigid as she lit incense for Saturn. The scent of myrrh curled through the air, sharp and suffocating. Her head turned slightly at my ragged breathing, her profile carved in shadow.
No words. Just the click of the mallet being set down.
I ducked through the side entrance, stripping off my sweat-damp shirt as I climbed the stairs. My room felt smaller tonight—cramped shelves stacked with textbooks, the narrow bed wedged against a wall pocked with old nail holes. My father's voice echoed in my head: "Your own room, Kassius. A privilege."
Privilege. A word for a gilded cage.
I changed quickly, fabric scraping fresh welts on my back. By the time I returned, she was waiting.
The altar's candles flickered as I knelt beside her. She didn't look at me. Saturn's stone effigy stared down instead, his scythe glinting in the low light. We prayed in silence, but the mallet's weight hung between us, heavier than devotion.
When it was over, she stood, her movements precise. The mallet's handle was worn smooth from years of grip—my grandfather's, then hers.
Thud.
The first strike buckled my knees.
"Ten minutes, " she hissed.
Thud.
"Did I raise you a thug?"
The second carved fire across my shoulder blades. I bit down on my tongue, copper flooding my mouth.
Thud.
Numbers dissolved. Pain became a rhythm—ten strikes, ten transgressions. Ten reminders that breathing too loud, running too late, existing too boldly, was a sin in this house.
When it ended, I pressed my forehead to the floor, the wood grain biting my skin. Her shadow lingered, then retreated.
In my room, I traced the raised scars on my arms—old lessons, older than Matteo's fists. They said I was weak since birth, but was it really my fault? My aunt's face floated into focus, her pinched expression when she'd visited last winter. "He wasn't breast-fed?" she'd sneered, as though my survival offended her. Maybe it did.
The ledger on my desk glared at me: Unified Alphabet Exercises. I flipped it open, the letters blurring.
Fate, my father called it. A butcher's son, destined to inherit blunted knives and debts. But fate didn't leave bruises.
Downstairs, cleavers clanged as my father worked. The shop's rhythm never changed—chop, cleave, profit. A legacy of blood. I felt frustrated that I was only born so my father's younger brother wouldn't inherit the business after him. He didn't even have an apprentice.
My father was strong enough to carry pigs by himself, or so he said.
I slumped over the desk, the mallet's echo throbbing in my bones. Dinner would come. So would more mistakes, more strikes.
But for now, I obeyed.-*-*-*-*-*