We run, stumble, hobble, and drag ourselves as fast as we can toward the school’s exit. Gran leads our charge to freedom right in front of me, her ripped nightgown flapping wildly around her pale legs. She’s running so fast that we can barely keep up. Slug hangs limp in Kwant’s arms, Gnat mutters curses under his breath, and Shadow is little more than a blur. And Miss Bleach? Well... what can I say? Only now do I allow myself to grasp just how thoroughly astonishing it is that she’s here at all. The most scatterbrained, absent-minded, chaotic teacher we have stands her ground in combat. Despite her glasses being cracked and her hair all but destroyed, her usually pale cheeks are flushed. Her eyes are clear and wide and I can only interpret the faint movement of her lips as a smile.
In the meantime, the noise behind us makes it clear that the soldiers are gaining on us—but they’re too late. Gran has already opened the door leading to the square. The fresh early morning air fills our lungs, as a welcome relief after the smoke-saturated school corridors. The sun, on the verge of rising above the horizon, paints the sky over the houses in deep crimson hues. It would have been a breathtaking, peaceful sight if not for the ominous black square we still have to cross and the trucks, vans, tents, and dog cages clustered outside its fence. Fortunately, the few uniformed men and women outside scatter as soon as they spot us. We must be a terrifying sight—an adrenaline-fueled, furious freak show charging straight at them. I exhale in relief, a small victory is maybe all we need. We may still have a chance. With one of those vehicles we could surely get away.
But then, halfway across the square, Gran suddenly slows down. Did she see something? Is she hurt? No—now I notice it too. It feels as though I’m glued to the black tiles, like I’m walking on a giant magnetic plate while wearing metal shoes. All of us are. We go slower and slower until we come to a complete stop in the middle of the square, unable to move any further.
Behind us, soldiers fly onto the square with no trouble at all. That fucking square takes sides! As if to emphasize my point, the gates swing shut all on their own, while black crows grow out of the tiles and take flight. Within seconds, an enormous black cloud of birds forms above us, swirling and preparing to attack.
Even now, though we can suddenly move again, it’s no use. The square has slowed us down just enough for the army behind us to catch up. We’re surrounded, so we do the only thing we can: we form a circle in the square’s dead center—shoulder to shoulder, back to back—and brace for the onslaught. For a brief surreal moment nothing happens. A whistle blows and then they come. From all sides—soldiers, teachers, dogs, crows... even the Flintstones.
Slug has regained consciousness. Though he doesn’t have the strength to repeat anything like his earlier stunt, he still does incredible work. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so consumed by my own failures during training, I might have noticed how much he’s improved. Together with Shadow, he creates what can only be described as small black holes—dark voids in the air that ‘swallow’ one, two, three, sometimes four soldiers at a time. They vanish for mere seconds, but when they reappear, they look stunned and disoriented, sinking to their knees, clutching their stomachs. Some even vomit.
I’ve more trouble making myself useful. Fire is a mighty weapon, but only if you’re able—or willing—to wield it. Being able to control it has been a lifelong struggle. Endless, fruitless training sessions have only confirmed what I’ve always feared: I just don’t dare to use it. Do I really want to set fire to living, breathing beings—humans, animals? The mere thought makes me feel sick. Occasionally, I’ll set fire to a coat or shoot flames at the crows above us, never hitting anything and that’s about the extent of my contribution to our fight for survival.
As soldiers fall around me—brought down by the efforts of my friends and teachers—I do nothing but scramble to avoid injury, dodging arms, sticks, crows, and dogs.
"Ha," I think, bitter and frustrated by my own inadequacy. "And I’m supposed to be the one threatening the world? Hilarious. All this because of me? What a joke." I try to suppress the growing tide of self-hatred and dejection, but it’s no use. I’m furious—at myself, but also at everyone who insists on believing this stupid prophecy made ages ago.
“Max!” A massive chunk of wall misses me by mere inches when I reflexively throw myself to the ground. Shit, that was close. I need to stay alert. I need to help. But when I glance around, I realize the battle is nearly over.
To my left, Miss Bleach is slammed to the ground by three Flintstones. If the wolf hadn’t intervened, they would’ve beaten her to death. A bit further away, Gnat flickers like a short-circuiting Christmas tree, surrounded by at least fifty crows. Their cumulative weight is too much for his exhausted body. His knees buckle. With the last of his strength, he raises his arms skyward, leaving his face defenseless. The crows seize the opportunity, aiming for his eyes. The gesture looks futile and desperate but as his arms are stretched fully upward, all the energy in his body seems to converge at his fingertips. The sharp tang of ozone stings my nostrils, like it would after a thunderstorm.
Dark clouds gather above him and before anyone can process what’s happening, lightning strikes. Gnat’s lightning right into his hands. A cascade of black feathers, limp wings, and powerless beaks rains onto the square where they are absorbed, leaving no trace.
“Ha... that... will... teach... them...” he hisses triumphantly. But he looks terrible. His shredded clothes hang in tatters from his scrawny body. Scorch marks mar his pale skin. He stares at his blackened palms in disbelief. “Little Zeus... she knew... Maria...” Then, slowly, he collapses.
With Miss Bleach and Gnat taken out, the rest are quickly overrun. Porkchops, once again grown to an intimidating size, attempts to envelop Barney with his massive body, but gasping for air, he slides off him like a wet towel, his face an alarming shade of purple. Barney smiles.
Slug and Shadow, attacked from behind by Fred and Betty, are knocked out with a single blow. Once again, it's the intervention of the wolf that saves them from further harm. Enemy or not, that animal—or rather, man—deserves a medal.
Only Kwant, Gran, and I remain standing. The fact that we haven’t been completely defeated yet is entirely thanks to them. Especially, Kwant seems to be invincible. He forces everyone around him to the ground by increasing their weight tenfold, sometimes snapping lower legs and knees like twigs. It’s a horrific sight, but there’s no time for empathy—we might still have a chance. Maybe we can...
TSSSSCHINKT
It sounds almost like a musical note, but when I turn my head, I see Kwant lying on the ground with a quivering arrow sticking out of his back. Behind him, Scroptz, still wearing his ridiculous pajamas and bathrobe, standing on the roof of a van, is holding a beautifully ornamented bow. He lowers it triumphantly. In the square, soldiers slowly struggle to their feet.
"NOOOO!"
I’ve never heard Gran’s voice like this before—distorted by grief and anger. I press my hands over my ears, desperate to block it out, but it’s no use. Her voice is inside my head. And I’m not the only one. All around me, people clutch their ears, some with blood dripping from their fingers. They’re far worse off than I am. Even now, Gran must still be protecting me.
There she stands, straight, tall, and pale, surrounded by soldiers writhing on the ground with pain-twisted faces, scattered like autumn leaves after a storm. I expect to see a crazed woman, but her face is calm, her posture composed, her eyes fixed on Scroptz, who has dropped his bow and arrows.
“Filthy old witch,” he whispers. “I should have drowned you the moment I learned you were protecting your rogue daughter and that disaster of a granddaughter from the Guild. I should have drowned you like a nest of kittens and cut you into pieces. I should have fed you to the rats.”
“Silence!” Gran’s voice in my head is soft but laden with so much grief and sadness that it makes her words all the more menacing. “Shame on you, Peter.” I glance from her to him and back again. Peter? Do these two know each other? “If the vulnerable, sensitive boy you once were could see you now, he would be ashamed.”
And suddenly, I’m somewhere else. I’m... inside Gran’s head? And she’s... inside his head? Inside Scroptz’? No! I don’t want to be inside her head, and I certainly don’t want to be inside his. This has to stop. Now!
"I want you to see this, Max. I want you to see what hate can do." But I don’t want that. It doesn’t feel right to be a voyeur in someone else’s mind. Too private, too personal. Still, I, and everyone else who remains conscious, suddenly stand in a small garden behind a modest working-class house. The house is old—you might even call it poor—if not for how meticulously it has been maintained. In that sense, it reminds me of our own home. A small boy in a school uniform stands miserably in front of a dark green rabbit cage at the back of the garden. He can’t be older than nine. Next to him, a woman wraps her arms protectively around him. She looks like she’s in her early thirties, wearing a faded blue apron.
A few feet away, a man in military uniform watches them with quiet disgust as the woman speaks to the boy in a soft, caring voice.
“Peter, it’s nature. Lily is sick. It’s better this way. Remember what I told you? That everybody will die someday? Everyone leaves their body behind, and the soul travels to a happier place. It’s sad for us, but for Lily, it’s better. She was in so much pain. Maybe she’ll come back as something healthier and happier.”
Tears well up in the boy’s eyes. The man, however, remains unimpressed.
“What a load of rubbish, Mary,” he barks. “What bloody nonsense. Ever since that faith healer rented a room here while I was... away, your head has been filled with this drivel. The universe, reincarnation, karma—utter bullshit.”
He gestures toward the boy, barely disguising his distaste. “If you fill his head with this nonsense, they’ll butcher him at school. He’s already a loser as it is. The world is a cruel and ruthless place, and he needs to be prepared for it.”
It’s obvious the woman is afraid, but she straightens her back and steps forward, determined to defend her son.
“This has nothing to do with what happened to you, Marco. Nothing to do with the war. The war is over. Maybe not your war, but ours is. You scream in your sleep. You’re short-tempered, and you drink. You’re not the man I married.”
“Is that so? And how do you think that war ended?” he snaps. “Not by singing mantras or attending séances. It ended with bloodshed, with guts spilling out of broken bodies, with mountains of corpses on the beaches of Normandy. It ended because men left their homes and families to free people they didn’t even know. It ended because they let themselves be butchered. The war ended because of men like me!”
Now, tears stream down the woman’s face. The boy shrinks behind her, hiding.
“There is only one universal rule, Mary: the survival of the fittest. And that son of ours, cowering behind you like a spineless worm, needs to learn that as soon as possible. If he doesn’t, he’ll be hopelessly lost. He has to learn to bite the bullet, to endure pain, and, most of all, to understand that it’s not the nicest but the toughest who survive.”
The scene might have been a bit more bearable if the man had raised his voice, but his tone is icy, cold, and calm. It’s horrifying.
“And the first lesson goes like this: if someone or something can’t heal, you kill it. That’s not cruelty—it’s grace.”
“No!” the mother shouts, but her husband strides toward the rabbit cage. She throws herself against him, but she’s too light to stop him.
I don’t want to watch, but I can’t look away when the father pulls the trigger. Simultaneous with the dry, cracking sound, something shatters in the eyes of the boy with the round, innocent face. I know, at that moment, he will never recover.
And then we’re back.
“WITCH! WITCH! WITCH!” screams Scroptz. Everyone else is silent. Some have tears in their eyes.
“This is not what happened! This is NOT what happened! You’re messing with my head. Planting false memories. Trying to break me. Go away!” Gran doesn’t flinch. She stands her ground, her battered face and shredded clothes a testament to her resilience.
“You shouldn’t have touched my granddaughter, Peter. Going after her was unforgivable.”
Suddenly, Scroptz no longer sounds angry. His voice turns desperate.
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Kryn. That granddaughter of yours will tip the Balance into the abyss. She’ll drag everything down with her. You know it! It’s foretold!”
Gran looks over her shoulder at me and offers a small, reassuring smile.
“I’ll take my chances, Peter. She’s my flesh and blood.”
“No! We have to make tough choices—painful choices—for the greater good, to survive.”
“That’s your father speaking, Peter. You were never like that. That’s what he turned you into.”
“Leave my father out of it…” And then he collapses. I glance at Gran. She stumbles, her face deathly pale.
“Max, I had to,” she says—her real voice trembling—before sinking to the ground. Around me, soldiers slowly rise, their movements sluggish and heavy. The deep, labored breathing of an enormous wolf grows louder, closer. I’m the last one standing, and I have nowhere left to run.