《The journey of a confined soul》 Chapter I Nilem walked home from school. As always, it was a fifteen-minute walk. After passing through the school gate, he lifted his head, adjusted his long sleeves to cover his wrists, tried to smile, and set off. He was just 11 years old. His day had gone well; Hugo had only taken one of his two meager sandwiches without pushing him around this time. That was something to be grateful for. For the past few days, Hugo had been more lenient toward him, perhaps because the teacher had scolded him. But Nilem doubted it; she was the most oblivious person alive. Maybe some higher force had influenced Hugo''s behavior. Honestly, Nilem didn''t care. The result was all that mattered to him. Right, straight, right, then left. At the end of the last street, he pulled his keys from his oversized bag and inserted them into the lock. With a sharp creak, the door opened onto a short hallway leading to the kitchen. His room and his mother''s room were on opposite ends, with the kitchen in between. The apartment was relatively small, forming a T-shape¡ªsmall but sufficient for a family of two. The light switch crackled under Nilem''s finger, and the bluish-white glow lit up the room. Outside, it had been dark for almost an hour; in December, the sun set early. While most people found this time of year dreary due to the lack of light, Nilem loved it. He felt at peace. These were the colors he liked; they mirrored his daily life. The blazing sun of June wasn''t for him. In his mind, he called it a liar. The June sun is a liar; it doesn''t reflect reality. It doesn''t reflect his reality. When everything outside looks bright and sunny but inside it feels dark and bleak, it''s just cynical, like a cruel joke aimed at him. With a sigh, he dropped his bag at his feet and sat on the nearest chair. He took off his shoes; his mother hated it when he dirtied the house. Nilem, who helped with the cleaning, agreed with her and always removed them willingly. He hadn''t had the chance to go anywhere over the summer since his mother couldn''t afford it, so he had spent the months in his room, staring at the ceiling. It had been a peculiar summer, but it hadn''t seemed to bother him much. Once his shoes were neatly placed by the door, he opened the kitchen drawers to check if his mother had managed to do some shopping. It seemed she had¡ªa loaf of sliced bread was in one of the drawers. He took out a single slice, not wanting to hear his mother complain about taking too much. He sat on a chair and began nibbling on his bread. The silence was broken only by the fridge''s rhythmic hum, keeping time with Nilem''s bites. The bluish-white light reflected off his smooth cheeks. He checked the time: 5:25 PM. He had two hours before his mother would come home from work. Until then, he was free. Taking his time, he savored his slice. Once he had swept the crumbs from the table into the trash, he grabbed his bag and headed to his room. He always delayed doing his homework. But today, feeling a rare burst of motivation, he sat on the edge of his bed and opened his agenda. Math exercises¡ªeasy enough.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Within half an hour, pencil raised, Nilem had finished them, still perched on the edge of his bed. He had gotten used to working there. Without a desk, he was usually forced to sit at the kitchen table for his homework. But for the past few weeks, Nilem had avoided lingering in the kitchen, avoiding being underfoot when his mother was home. Even in her absence, the habit remained. Before her arrival, his mother had asked him to boil water for pasta. She arrived moments later, just as the pasta was nearly cooked. Without a word, she slammed the door behind her, removed her scarf, and slumped wearily into a chair. She looked at her son, gave him a faint, toothless smile, and gestured toward the pot with a tilt of her head to silently ask if the pasta was done. Without speaking, Nilem lifted the lid, tasted the pasta, and drained it. Bringing the dish to the small table''s center, he saw his mother lighting a cigarette. Lowering his head, he set the table, the sound of a match striking the box accompanying his movements. Once everything was set, he sat across from her. In a hoarse voice, she asked, - No oil? With one last effort, he placed the bottle beside her. Those were the only words exchanged during the meal. The fridge''s hum accompanied them, now joined by the sound of two people chewing. After clearing the table, under his mother''s detached gaze behind a cloud of smoke from her second cigarette, Nilem rolled up his sleeves to do the dishes. After a raspy cough, his mother said, - I''ll do it. Without a word, Nilem thanked her with a nod and went straight to his room. He felt her gaze follow him until he closed the door behind him. He lay down on his bed without bothering to change into his pajamas and waited. That ceiling, with its stains, tiny cracks, and rough patches, was etched into his memory. He had created countless stories in his mind, even naming the details he observed. Entire families had formed under the power of his imagination. The Crack family, for instance, was always expanding its territory, slowly encroaching on the Stain family''s space. He had spent months building countless tales. As he stared at the ceiling, what he had been waiting for finally happened. A few minutes later, he heard his mother get up, open a drawer, and return to the table. A popping sound echoed through the apartment as a bottle was uncorked, followed by the flow of liquid into a glass. She was drinking. At first, Nilem had confronted her about it, but she had scolded him in return, telling him to stop worrying so much and to mind his own business. He had noticed the change, though. By the third cigarette, he heard her crying. His heart clenched. Poor mother. This happened every night. Nilem didn''t know where she found all those tears. He had cried too, but never as long or as often as she did. Nilem clenched his teeth. Even though it happened every evening, the weight in his chest never lightened. It seemed, like his mother''s tears, that the heaviness would never go away. About an hour later, he heard her get up. Nilem tensed. The creak of the floorboards drew closer, passing near his door before retreating to the other side of the apartment, toward her bedroom. He relaxed, but the tension had given him a cramp. Gritting his teeth, he massaged the sore spot and waited for her to settle. He didn''t dare make a sound. Once the apartment was silent again, he got up quietly, changed into his pajamas, and slipped under his thin blanket. He was often cold, but that was just how it was. Shivering, a small smile appeared on his cheeks¡ªit had been a very good day. Chapter II Nilem stretched and turned off his alarm. A dreamless night. That surprised him. It had been a while. He was almost sad he couldn''t remember anything. Maybe it was because he had a good day yesterday. Today was Friday, his favorite day of the week because the weekend was near. That meant he could stay in his room all day. That was good. His mom worked weekends, and he couldn''t have handled being home with her otherwise. He had suffered enough during the summer when he had to spend two full days with her every week. As usual, he had breakfast : a glass of fruit juice, and two discount-brand sandwiches for lunch, got dressed, and left for school. He didn''t like taking showers; he was too lazy. His mom used to nag him about it, but now she didn''t care. He even wondered if it was convenient for her to save on water. Throwing on his shoes, he set off. Right, left, straight, left. He arrived, as always, ten minutes before anyone else. He hated being late, hated drawing attention to himself. He preferred to observe. Caroline always arrived soon after him, then Jean, then Jawad, and the others. Finally, the teacher would open the small gate to the courtyard, letting the kids head straight to the classroom. They''d sit down, take out their supplies, Hugo would arrive last, and the morning would begin. Math was first, followed by art. Perfect. Nilem liked both and was good at them, too. The teacher corrected their work from the previous day. The first exercise was entirely correct. For the second one, she asked him to solve it at the board, but he shook his head no. She didn''t push it. Caroline handled it instead. He had it right. The third exercise? Correct again. Bingo. A perfect score. Fixated on his notebook, he let a small smile slip. Hugo, sitting in front of him, turned and noticed. With a sneer, Hugo faced forward again. Damn it. He saw me smile. Fuck it. After a few additional exercises, the math lesson ended. As usual, Nilem lingered, taking as much time as he could to leave. He expected it¡ªHugo was waiting in the courtyard, barely a few steps from the classroom door. - Since when are you happy? Hugo asked. Nilem didn''t dare respond and simply shrugged. - Been a while since I''ve seen you smile. Hugo stared into Nilem''s dark eyes with his pale ones and grinned. - That''s cool. - Yeah Nilem replied softly. - It''s ''cause you got everything right in math, huh? - Yeah. - That''s cool. Nilem shrugged again. In truth, the smile came more from accomplishing something than math specifically. Math didn''t matter much to him. He kept that to himself, staying silent. - I don''t know how you figured out the last part of the second problem. That was so hard, I didn''t get a thing the teacher said. - You just had to subtract the man''s volume in the end. - Yeah, I got that part, but the percentages? I don''t get those at all. - They''re just a part of something out of 100. Nilem explained instinctively. - Well, that''s dumb. What''s the point of dividing something by 100? Math people are weird. - Yeah, true. - See? You''re weird, too. You don''t talk, you''re always on your own. A total math nerd. I''m the only one who talks to you because I like it when you give me your food. You''re the only one who gets that I don''t have any and doesn''t rat me out to the teacher. Nilem lowered his gaze. That was true, and it bothered him, but it was the truth. He felt like he had to share his food. It was his way of showing he understood Hugo, in some way. - By the way, I don''t have anything for lunch today. You don''t mind if I take yours, right? Nilem didn''t dare oppose him. He nodded submissively. Pleased, Hugo added, - Good. Nilem murmured, - Yeah, good. The next session began. Not much happened during art class, despite Nilem enjoying it. He liked it mostly for the calm atmosphere. During lunch, as expected, he handed over his food to Hugo. The school didn''t have a cafeteria, the town couldn''t afford one.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The afternoon passed uneventfully with a long, dull history class. When school ended, the teacher wished him a happy weekend. He packed his things and left. At the gate, Hugo came up behind him and smacked him hard on the back of the head. - Have a good weekend, math nerd! Hugo laughed and sped off, probably heading to his mom''s car parked nearby. Nilem rubbed the back of his head. The cold air had made the slap sting more than usual, but he didn''t dwell on it. He was hungry. His stomach twisted, but he was used to the feeling. It was for Hugo. Hugo didn''t have food. Walking home, he took his time¡ªit was Friday, and he didn''t have homework to do right away. Once home, he grabbed a slice of bread from the drawer and ate it before retreating to his room. He stared at his walls. Posters of cartoons he used to watch before his mom sold the TV were still there. He missed that TV. Now, he played out his favorite cartoons in his head, using the toys he had left. But even that had lost its appeal. Over the summer, little by little, he''d stopped. It was strange how time could move so fast when you did nothing, like some kind of lethargy. When days all felt the same, they blurred together. Yesterday was like the day before, so last month felt like this month. Everything seemed closer. That was his summer, and it would make his weekend feel just as short. Lost in thought, he found himself in front of a poster of Boowal-man. His dad had brought it back from a trip. Nilem had no idea what the name meant or where it was from. The hero stood tall, a victorious smile on his lips¡ªthe stereotypical superhero. Nilem traced the poster with his fingers, lost in thought. His dad... Suddenly, he spun around and dove under his blanket, shivering. It was odd¡ªevery time he got into bed, even if it was warm, he''d shiver. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, he saw the cracks again. They seemed to draw him in. Through them, he saw worlds, stories. He dove into one of them, soaring like an eagle over arid lands. Below him lay sand and dried earth as far as the eye could see. Bodies were strewn everywhere¡ªsoldiers in traditional attire, slain, some with spears or swords still lodged in their bodies. The eagle soared over the carnage. Through its eyes, Nilem saw a woman kneeling beside a wounded man, tending to his injuries, surrounded by other women who seemed to assist her. The eagle flew too fast for him to take in the details. Further ahead, he saw more people, alive and well. Lifting his gaze as high as the eagle''s sight allowed, he gasped¡ªa city rose before him. Ocher-colored, its sculpted walls suggested grandeur, wealth, and splendor hidden within. Before he could see more, the cracks in his ceiling pushed him back. He was in bed again, under his blanket, smiling. If he hadn''t dreamed last night, it was to dream now. This was the first time it felt so real, as if he were truly in his dream. The front door slammed shut. Already? Nilem jumped up¡ªwhat time was it? He had no idea. Walking into the kitchen in a daze, he saw his mom. A glance at the clock confirmed it: 7:30 PM. As she took off her shoes, she asked, - What''s up with you? - Nothing, nothing. - Good. Did you cook? - No, I didn''t have time. Scoffing, she said, - Of course. Like you''ve got so much going on. Lowering his head, Nilem muttered, - Sorry. - Never mind. She ruffled his hair as she passed. Despite the smell of cigarettes, the gesture warmed him. She set a pot of water to boil and pulled out some tomato sauce from her old jacket. Smiling, she said, - Ta-da! Nilem smiled back and returned to his room. She lit a cigarette and called after him, - I''ll let you know when dinner''s ready. Once called, dinner went as it always did¡ªone cigarette before and another after, no words exchanged except for the sound of her exhaling smoke. Nilem did the dishes, then returned to his room. Fully dressed, he curled up under his blanket, waiting. His mom''s nightly routine began. The sound of a bottle opening was followed by her sobs. The smell of her cigarette smoke reached his nose. It was getting worse, more intense. He wanted to say something, to change things, but he couldn''t bring himself to leave his bed. He thought of how she used to be. Tears welled up in his eyes, his lower lip trembling. He buried his head in his hands and let it all out silently, as quietly as possible. Once the wave passed, he stood up, determined. He wanted to end this¡ªto confront her and tell her it hurt him. That she was hurting herself. But he didn''t get the chance. As he lowered the handle and opened the door, he found her standing there. Disfigured by alcohol and cigarettes, her face was twisted in rage. Her features were drawn, worn from her emotions, her tears, her long days. Her hair stuck out wildly, and her mouth formed a horrible grimace. In that instant, Nilem knew he shouldn''t have opened the door. Before he could do anything, she lunged and slammed the door shut behind her. - WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? CAN''T YOU SEE I HAVE ENOUGH ON MY PLATE? CAN''T YOU SEE YOU''RE DISTURBING ME? Nilem tried to respond. Tried. But her slap sent him stumbling back into his room. She followed, closing the door behind her, still shouting, IT''S YOUR FAULT, YOUR FAULT! LIKE I DON''T HAVE ENOUGH TO DEAL WITH, AND NOW YOU''RE GETTING ON MY NERVES TOO! YOU HEAR ME? YOU''RE DRIVING ME CRAZY! The second blow came before he could process it. He raised his arms to shield his face but didn''t expect the kick. Winded, he collapsed to the floor. Suddenly, his mom went still. She seemed to realize she had gone too far. Before leaving, she spat, I don''t want to see you anymore. The door slammed shut. Shaking, Nilem got to his feet, wiped his tears, changed into his pajamas, and crawled deep under his blanket. That night, he dreamed. Chapter III A shadow briefly covered the walls, making the flames of the torches lining the long corridor flicker. There were no guards that night, and the stranger took full advantage of it. He moved in near-total silence, leaving the inhabitants of the building in deep slumber. With a precise, noiseless gesture, he opened a door and slipped to the edge of a bed. A man lay there, deeply asleep. A dwindling candle illuminated the scene, its flame trembling and on the verge of extinction. The man was lying on his back, hands folded over his stomach, looking peaceful. His deep breathing broke the silence reigning in the room. He lay in the position of the dead. The intruder suddenly drew a blade, sharpened to perfection. It reflected the halo of the flickering flame. With a flawless motion, the stranger slashed the sleeping man''s throat deeply. His final breath was no more than a faint spasm, leaving him in his initial position¡ªthe position of the dead. At that precise moment, the small candle went out, plunging the room into stillness and coolness. The assassin had disappeared. ... He woke up. The heat was pounding at the back of his skull. He rubbed his temples to gather his senses. He was home. It was his day off, and he had asked his wife not to wake him. While massaging his head, he got up and walked to the kitchen. His wife was waiting for him, seated at the table, cutting vegetables for soup. - Good morning, wife. - Good morning. Did you sleep well? - Yes. Sighing, he sat down across from her, gazing into her blue eyes. He spoke then. - Times are getting worse. His wife, raising her head with a concerned expression, asked: - Oh? Shaka had the same impression yesterday. He shared his concerns with me. - I can imagine. Shaka is part of the royal guard too. He must feel the tension in the air. - How do you explain it? - I''m not sure. For years now, we''ve been seeing an increase in religious power, as if... He lowered his voice. - As if the King had gradually forgotten our efforts in recent years, as if he wanted to go back in time, as if... He whispered even more softly. - As if old age had made him lose his memory and pushed him to listen to the first slightly pious person who came along His wife turned around, looking down the hallway as though checking to make sure no one had overheard her husband. She replied, - You should be careful. - Yes, you''re right. With those words, he got up. - I''ll have dinner later. I''m not hungry. I need to step outside to have my armor inspected. His wife nodded. He left, walked down the hallway, and found himself in the central courtyard. He lived in the royal barracks, a dormitory provided free of charge by the crown in exchange for pledging allegiance to the kingdom. Many of the guards lived there with their wives and children. The barracks were about an hour''s walk from the city center and the King''s Palace¡ªa relatively short distance within the city''s scale. This was Fort-Dragor, the largest city-state in the world, home to nearly a million inhabitants. The city was so vast it was divided into districts called Dragorites, governed by officials known as Tsev. There were ten in total. The city sprawled for miles, its size owed to the Dvou River and the desert stretching far on either side. The sea opened it to the world, while the surrounding land isolated it. This combination made it an impregnable fortress. On the water, Fort-Dragor was untouchable, with a naval fleet numbering hundreds of ships. It had demonstrated its superiority for decades before settling into a period of peaceful prosperity. Though rumored to be weaker now, no one in the world dared to challenge it.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. He snapped out of his thoughts as the street''s ambient noise brought him back to reality. He smiled. This city was his to defend. Even though he had only drawn his sword once during his career, he remained proud. As he walked, he greeted the fishmonger, returned a smile, and continued on his way. The cobbler, a bit farther down the road, greeted him: - You look well today! Still wearing that armband, I see. I hope your wife is doing well. -Still here. And thank you for its sturdiness and... He glanced at his arm. The armband, a gift from his wife months¡ªmaybe even a year¡ªago, was something he cherished deeply. - ...and its beauty, he finished. - Always a pleasure, brother. He winked and continued on his way. Though he rarely visited this area due to his demanding work, seeing these familiar faces, smiles and the smells always warmed his heart. Each district of the city had its unique ambiance and story. That was the beauty and strength of Fort-Dragor. He lived in the First Tsev, adjacent to the palace district, along with the third, fourth, sixth, and seventh Tsev. The remaining districts were organized around them. Despite the King''s authority, each Tsev had its own leader and could establish its own rules. The King had oversight but rarely intervened, historically avoiding revolts or conflicts by leaving the Tsev relatively autonomous. Without meaning to, before reaching the blacksmith, he accidentally bumped into a passerby. The royal guard was a broad-shouldered man, standing nearly six feet one, towering over most of the population. Sometimes he forgot his size, frequently bumping into furniture, doorways, or people. Raising a hand, he apologized to the elderly man before noticing his pendant¡ªa circle of iron with a complex geometric design at its center, the symbol of devotion to the religion that, to him, was slowly corrupting the city. Sighing, he turned his back on the man, apologized once more with a wave, and arrived at Froyden''s shop. Froyden was the most renowned blacksmith in the First Tsev, trusted by the royal guard for his craftsmanship and offering discounts to the city''s guards. Standing before the shop, Bodes waited patiently for Froyden to finish hammering a bar of glowing-hot metal before interrupting him. - Good day, Froyden. I''m Bodes from the royal guard. The blacksmith looked up. - Yes, your face looks familiar. Lifting the bar to plunge it into a bucket of water, he asked, - What can I do for you? - I came to have my armor inspected. I''ve had it for five years now, and our captain ordered us to have it checked to ensure our training hasn''t compromised its integrity. - All right, leave it here. I''ll take care of it by tomorrow. - I need to be back at the royal guard by tomorrow. Froyden raised his hand to take the royal guard''s breastplate. - I''ll look at it right away, if that''s all right with you. Bodes removed his armor and handed it over. With a firm grip, the blacksmith took it and began examining it with a magnifying glass. After just a few minutes, Froyden announced that everything was in excellent condition. There were a few minor scratches here and there, but nothing that would compromise the armor''s robustness. - If you''re picky, you could replace the belt connecting the two breastplates, but even that''s optional. - All right, thank you. How much do I owe you? - Nothing. - Thank you, Froyden. Have a good day. The blacksmith returned the courtesy and went back to work. Bodes had suspected as much¡ªhis captain was overly cautious, and five years of use wasn''t enough to damage a royal guard''s armor, especially without seeing battle. But orders were orders, and he never disobeyed them. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn''t eaten since last night''s supper. He looked forward to the meal his wife had likely prepared during his absence. Rarely home, he had completed his task quickly to spend more time with her. The sun was at its zenith, beating down relentlessly. The narrow streets of the First Tsev were far less airy and spacious than those of the royal district. Though accustomed to wearing his armor in all weather, the heat, noise, and dense crowds made this an especially grueling walk. In the First Tsev, they didn''t have the cooling proximity of the Dvou River, unlike the Eighth Tsev. And the Ninth Tsev, closest to the desert, must have been unbearably hot. Wiping his forehead, Bodes decided to stop by Durnoret''s shop, the cobbler, to ask for some water. While there, Durnoret offered to inspect the armor''s leather straps as well. The water was refreshing. After a quick inspection, Durnoret reassured him that everything was in perfect condition. As Bodes prepared to leave, Durnoret placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered, - Good luck in the coming days. Bodes frowned and asked warily, - What''s that supposed to mean? Caught off guard, the cobbler stammered before leaning closer and whispering again, - The counselor of the Second Tsev was found murdered in his home. Chapter IV Yokah was focused. With a flick of his wrist, he diligently followed the lines written on the paper laid out before him. Yet another formal letter. This one came from the 3rd Tsev. He sighed. According to its content, Echille himself, ruler of the neighboring Tsev, was expressly requesting the release of one of his citizens from prison. This citizen, named Bjorn, had decided a few days prior to murder a fishmonger, suspecting him of having an affair with his wife. Even if that were true, it was no way to behave, and Yokah, enforcing justice, had locked him up in his cells, as the murder had taken place within his jurisdiction. He turned to his advisor, who was busy sorting through his leader¡¯s archived documents. ¡ª Ersa? ¡ª Yes, Yokah? ¡ª We received a message from Echille, I¡¯d like to¡ª He was cut off by three knocks at the door. Raising an eyebrow, Yokah ordered the person to enter. Tornes stepped in, a soldier tasked with protecting the premises. He knelt to bow before his master. ¡ª Tell me, why have you come to disturb me? ¡ª Master, urgent news from the second Tsev. Yokah raised an eyebrow¡ªthis must be serious. ¡ª Sir Vox¨¨s has been assassinated in his sleep last night. We don¡¯t know more for now. His Majesty the King demands an emergency meeting this afternoon at the Palace. A heavy silence filled the room. The ruler of the second Tsev assassinated? Why? What was behind this murder? This didn¡¯t bode well, and Yokah didn¡¯t like it. He feared for his own position. In truth, if Vox¨¨s had been assassinated, why not him next? He rose from his desk and, with a glance, dismissed Tornes. Once the heavy, solid wooden door closed, he rubbed his forehead. Ersa, meanwhile, seemed deep in thought. The homicide of a ruler. It hadn¡¯t happened in years. Five years, to be exact. Yokah remembered it perfectly. The advisor of the eighth Tsev had killed his superior, also at night, by poisoning his drink. It took less than two days to prove it was indeed him behind the sinister act. There¡¯s a rule to know in Fort-Dragor: everything gets out. There are ears everywhere, all in service of the King. When the people know, it¡¯s already too late. And the people always know everything. God knows what was in store for that advisor¡ªtorture, a slow death for sure. His body had then been left hanging for days on the northern fa?ade of the Palace, just above the massive drawbridge leading into the Royal grounds. Messing with the King¡¯s right-hand men was a direct ticket to hell. You had to be crazy. It was Ersa who broke the silence: ¡ª I will arrange your departure as soon as possible. It¡¯s already near noon, you haven¡¯t eaten yet, and you must head to the Palace without delay. ¡ª Yes, thank you, Ersa. Yokah slumped into the luxurious, gold-stitched sofa. He looked around his office¡ªa room close to 100 square meters, with a ceiling painted by the greatest artists of the city. Paintings adorned the walls, and the shiny black pine flooring highlighted the various pieces of furniture, each more expensive than the last. Yokah came from a noble family. Like all the rulers of Fort-Dragor, he had inherited his position from his father. Power passed through blood. They had been trained from birth to lead, generation after generation. He had thus inherited luxurious apartments right in the center of the sixth Tsev. He commanded hundreds of men and could do with them as he pleased. But he wasn¡¯t the type to give particularly cruel orders or abuse his power like many other rulers did. No, he preferred to keep his power and attract as little wrath as possible. He picked his nose. He was hungry. With a flick of his thumb and forefinger, he sent the mucus onto the floor. His various maids would clean it up. He got up, adjusted his tunic, and, moving toward the heavy front door, whistled. Instantly, the doors creaked open, pushed by two soldiers from the Tsev army. They could be distinguished from the royal army by the color of their armor: the royal ones had golden decorations. Once out of the room, Yokah found himself in the large courtyard of his Fort. All around it were the kitchens, the banquet hall, the dining room, the various dormitories, and offices used for his functions. The weather outside was beautiful. The sun was blazing. He asked his men for a parasol, which was immediately brought to him. Escorted by three of his men, one shading him from the heat, he headed to his stables. They were located at the edge of the courtyard, where several horses awaited him. He chose his favorite, as usual¡ªa jet-black Arabian thoroughbred. It was magnificent. A soldier arrived just before his departure for the Palace, informing him that Ersa had arranged his dinner upon arrival. Nodding, Yokah gave a slight nudge with his heel to the horse¡¯s flank, setting it into motion immediately. He had now left his courtyard, passed through the immense wrought-iron gate guarded by two Tsev soldiers. This gate was what separated him from the people. Still surrounded by his guards, he took the road to the Palace. It wasn¡¯t complicated¡ªit was the widest avenue. Each Fort was connected to the Palace by grand avenues to ensure quicker and safer transport for its rulers and advisors. All except the tenth Tsev, for a reason Yokah had forgotten; the event that caused it dated back hundreds of years, surely. The sight of the great library snapped him out of his thoughts. Erected hundreds of years ago, it housed everything the city of Fort-Dragor had acquired up to that point. It was the close link between the eighth Tsev and his own, a union forged long ago. Inside this vast repository of knowledge were books on every imaginable topic¡ªbotany, chemistry, exploration, biology, and even astrology. It was the only monument in the city containing works that contradicted Royal power. It was said that some books contained utterly absurd claims, like the world being round, like a sphere, and other such nonsense. They were forbidden to open, kept in a separate room. But they were there. This was proof of Fort-Dragor''s openness and wisdom, once again demonstrating its intelligence and superiority. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.As he passed, citizens bowed their heads, a sign of respect for their ruler. Yokah glared at them, a smirk on his lips. How he loved power. The city walls, lower than those at the city entrance, separated the city from the royal quarters. Yokah and his men passed through the South gate, which they shared with the fifth Tsev. They had no trouble passing, being well-known to the guards. However, for an ordinary citizen, passing these walls was impossible unless they had a pass personally signed by the King. Otherwise, entry into these quarters was forbidden. Guards were posted every twenty meters, preventing any intrusion. Those who lived in this quarter stayed there their entire lives¡ªa city within a city. All citizens of Dragor were forbidden from leaving this small city, but why leave when everything imaginable was contained within these walls? The best restaurants, inns, brothels with the finest prostitutes, the best parks¡­ paradise for the wealthy. Crossing these walls meant a change in atmosphere. Dragor was a theater city. Hypocrisy was more useful than any other trait. Everyone judged, everyone despised, but everyone smiled. Yokah felt like a fish in water. He arrived at the Palace gates. Every time he visited, he was left speechless. The monument wasn¡¯t just immense; it overflowed with wealth. Made of polished stones from all regions, built by the best architects known in the world, it far surpassed any comprehension. Wide moats filled with water prevented any access from the sides, leaving only one entrance¡ªan enormous, overprotected bridge. The entire peninsula was composed of numerous buildings, forming a large wall. Living within were the King¡¯s close associates, his servants, his scribes¡ªeveryone lucky enough to work for him. This surrounding wall, in turn, enclosed the Palace. It measured 200 meters on each side, with a large dome at its center, where the King had his apartments and official offices. That¡¯s where Yokah needed to go. A mix of glass, raw sandstone, ochre stone, columns rose from the four corners, sculptures protruded here and there, and the fa?ades contained countless details¡ªsometimes historical, sometimes purely aesthetic. ¡ª Sir, the King is expecting us. Yokah had stopped, admiring this architectural masterpiece. ¡ª Yes, yes, I know. But next time, try to keep quiet and let me admire it as I please. Resuming his path and crossing the wide bridge that led to the heart of Dragor, Yokah thought the guard was right. But he hated being wrong. He left his horse with a squire and continued on foot. At the entrance of the royal residence, a man intercepted him. He wore golden armor. ¡ª Madam Ersa sent us a message; your dinner awaits in the guest hall. Please follow me. Yokah nodded and followed the armored man to be guided. The ten-meter-high door opened, revealing the Palace¡¯s first room¡ªan immense corridor, fifteen meters high and ten meters wide. Carpeted in red along its entire length, Royal guards formed a corridor, standing straight and unyielding. Human columns. Yokah was escorted through a maze of rooms for about ten minutes before arriving in a hall as tall as the others, with a massive dark wood table in the center, capable of seating twenty guests. His meal awaited there. ¡ª Here is your sustenance, Sir. His guide bowed and took his leave. The ruler of the sixth Tsev found himself alone with men in armor posted by the doors to ensure security. As he began his feast, a man entered the hall. He was tall, with a goatee, an elongated face, and a scar running across his face. He wore a blue tunic. Yokah stood to greet him. ¡ª Sir Monher, what brings you here so early? ¡ª Sir Yokah, you know very well I hate being late. ¡ª I understand, as do I! ¡ª Would you mind if I kept you company during dinner? ¡ª Not at all, it would be an honor. Please, have a seat. Yokah hated being watched while he ate. Monher pulled up a chair and sat down. After a brief silence, he started the conversation. ¡ª So, you¡¯ve heard the sad news? ¡ª Yes, just this morning. ¡ª What do you make of it? Yokah was caught off guard. What did he make of it? ¡ª It touched me. I liked him a lot. Vox¨¨s was like a friend to me. Monher raised an eyebrow and replied: ¡ª Oh, really? You know as well as I do that it¡¯s not wise to make friends, especially among Tsev rulers. ¡ª Yes, of course. By friend, I meant a friend in power. ¡ª Only the people grant power, and I¡¯m not sure the people elected us or even want us. Yokah lowered his head. Monher continued: ¡ª We only have power in our little world, and you know as well as I do, the people are restless. Don¡¯t you think this assassination is linked to that unrest? ¡ª I don¡¯t know. Honestly, I haven¡¯t thought about it. ¡ª Well, I suppose we¡¯ll have plenty of time to discuss it this afternoon. With these words, Sir Monher raised his arm and pointed toward the door. At that precise moment, it opened, and a dozen guards entered. The King was there. Chapter V Nilem opened his eyes. He had the whole weekend ahead of him. The night had been long, restful, and full of dreams. He rejoiced¡ªhe loved his imagination. More than his mother. At this cynical thought, he smiled. He had the whole day ahead to laze around, daydream, imagine, live. It was his stomach that pushed him out of bed, plunging him directly into the cold atmosphere of the house. He got dressed without bothering to take off his pajamas under his sweater and pants. He took his daily glass of fruit juice and looked out the window. It was raining. Great. Just great. The passersby bustled about, always in a hurry for who knew what, as if a sword would strike them down if they didn¡¯t optimize every moment. In truth, Nilem understood them. He was like that at school too¡ªit was the system¡¯s fault, as his father often said. You had to rush, not get in the way, not take one step too many or to the side. His father would always repeat this phrase: - It¡¯s when you understand what surrounds you and realize how trapped you are that you begin to become free. To play with those constraints, to play with philosophy, to play with the rules, to live. Now, this weekend, Nilem felt free. He spun around, like performing a dance step, and ended up back in his room. His father. He missed him. With his arms raised toward the ceiling, his head straight, he lifted himself onto his tiptoes and let himself fall onto his mattress. His father. Nilem closed his eyes. ¡­ He was leaving class. With his rolling backpack folded and strapped to his back, sticking out a few centimeters on each side of his body, Nilem walked, smiling, toward the school exit. He knew he was expected. He was talking with a friend of his named Yseulte. Bright-eyed, with short, curly brown hair, he was one of Nilem¡¯s best friends. They played with spinning tops together. As they were engaged in an animated discussion, Nilem heard a familiar voice reach his ears: - I''m here! It was his father, making large gestures with his arms. He signaled for him to hurry by quickly moving his forearm toward himself. Nilem didn¡¯t know where this gesture came from or why people did it, but after quickly saying goodbye to his friend, he ran off to join him on the other side of the street. Once at his side, his father ruffled his hair and asked if he¡¯d had a good day. After a brief exchange of small talk, Nilem sat in the front passenger seat. He wasn¡¯t normally allowed, but his father gave him this freedom, so he never let it slip away. Before heading home, they had to stop to buy some bread. After this small errand, they pushed open the front door. His mother was there, standing in the living room with her hands on her hips. Nilem smiled and threw himself into her arms. His father greeted her with a kiss as well. Nilem was especially happy because tonight was soccer practice! Training with his friends, their little after-school ritual a few times a week. He tossed his bag onto his bed, changed clothes, and came out of his room, cleats in hand. - I''m ready! His mother came closer to him and, pulling his cheek slightly, replied: - You have to snack first so you can be in shape. As she headed toward the kitchen, his mother ran her hand through his hair. Nilem didn¡¯t like that¡ªshe was often too tactile with him, always finding an excuse to touch him. But Nilem said nothing; she was his mother, and it was probably her way of showing love. And besides, she was even worse with his father¡ªconstantly hugging him, caressing him¡­ As if they were sixteen years old and experiencing their first love. Though, it depended on the days. Sometimes, it was the complete opposite. His mother had always been like that¡ªchanging. His father had explained to him that she was bipolar. Nilem didn¡¯t know what that meant¡ªmaybe it was in French? He thought that because his dad sometimes spoke that language when telling stories about his day. Once his stomach was full, they left for the football field, about five minutes away by car. As usual, his father dropped him off quickly, unable to park on the fast road in front of the field. He always said it was dangerous. That day, he didn¡¯t remind him. He should have. The training session went particularly well. The coach had let them play a long match¡ªalmost an hour, which was extremely rare and highly appreciated by the team. Nilem even scored from a corner kick, earning praise from his teammates. After showering with his friends in an atmosphere of euphoria, Nilem was eager to get home. Standing at the gate of the field, facing the road, he saw his father¡¯s car approaching. Without hesitation, Nilem started running toward it. Seeing him, his father also stepped forward, breaking into a run. The child, comforted by their shared excitement to see each other, sped up, oblivious to everything else around him.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. He shouldn¡¯t have. It was only a moment before Nilem realized. Too late. The sound of a car horn rang in his ears¡ªhe had made a huge mistake. His excitement had made him forget a simple rule: look left and right before crossing. Instead of a hug, Nilem felt his father tackle him, sending him flying several meters away¡ªjust in time to narrowly avoid the car, which, despite braking, couldn¡¯t stop in time. Lying on his back, eyes wide open, breathless, Nilem gasped for air. Everything had happened too fast. He got up with difficulty. His breath caught even more. His father wasn¡¯t there in front of him. With dazed eyes, he searched frantically around him. Then he saw him¡ªlying on the road, several meters away. Nilem¡¯s vision blurred, and he lost consciousness¡­ ¡­He woke up in a hospital bed. His mother was by his side, in tears. With just one look, he understood. She wasn¡¯t crying for him. A void formed in his stomach. He closed his eyes. He felt like he was being sucked in, pulled into the bed, as if falling into an endless void. His head spun. His stomach ached. He felt like throwing up, the taste of blood in his mouth. His limbs were heavy, impossible to move. So this is what it feels like to lose a parent? So this is what it feels like to have caused his father¡¯s death? At that thought, Nilem¡¯s body convulsed, overtaken by uncontrollable spasms. It was his mother¡¯s cold hand on his forearm that snapped him out of it. She whispered: - It¡¯s not your fault. We¡¯ll get through this. Oh right, she said that because Nilem had forgotten to mention that his mother didn¡¯t have a job due to her mental illness. Everything happened so fast. Shortly after the funeral and after handling the administrative paperwork, his mother quickly decided to move¡ªshe couldn¡¯t bear to live in a place that reminded her of him. So they changed cities. Nilem had to say goodbye to all his friends. Their new apartment was much smaller¡ªonly three rooms, two bedrooms, and a kitchen that doubled as a dining area. They ended up in a small village, too small to even have a cafeteria at his elementary school. His mother quickly found a job, though Nilem didn¡¯t know where or what she did. Since his father¡¯s death, his mother spoke to him less and less, eventually slipping into near silence. He felt guilty. Deep down, he knew this was his fault. His mother kept repeating that it wasn¡¯t, that he had saved him, that it had been his father¡¯s choice. If he had wanted to, he could have just let him get run over. But he didn¡¯t¡ªhe made the choice. Every time his mother told him that, Nilem just shrugged. He wasn¡¯t so sure. After all, wasn¡¯t it a father¡¯s duty to save his family? That¡¯s what the cartoons they used to watch together always said. His dad always said that wasn¡¯t true¡ªthat fathers weren¡¯t there just to protect their families. But in the end, he had just proven the opposite. As if he hadn¡¯t really meant to throw himself under the car instead of Nilem. The worst part was his mother¡¯s state. Losing her crutch had made her lose balance. Her mood swings became more frequent, more sudden, more violent. She had found refuge in alcohol¡ªit helped her stay in control. The further they got from his father¡¯s death, the less his mother could manage herself. She seemed more and more lost, as if she didn¡¯t know what she was doing in this life. She had placed all her hope in that relationship, having had a difficult childhood. Now, she had no more reference points, no more refuge, no more reasons to hold on to reality. "Drinking to forget" wasn¡¯t just a throwaway phrase or a tasteless joke people made before pouring a glass. It was real. She drank to feel light, to feel as if she were in his arms again, floating closer to him, as if on a cloud. She drank at night, alone¡ªmeeting her son¡¯s gaze in those moments was unbearable. It brought her crashing back to Earth. But he was there. Right there. Standing, hollow-faced, eyes vacant, looking at her as if she weren¡¯t his mother. But she was. A half-mother. Half a parent. She hated that. And he knew it. She knew she was wrong. She knew it wasn¡¯t his fault. But maybe, just a little bit, it was. Or maybe she was just lost. A vice was pressing against his head. Thinking about the whole story still unsettled him. He, too, had lost a reference point¡ªa stability that now made him question his entire life. Nilem wasn¡¯t like his mother; he would have made it through if only he were old enough. He dreamed of being grown-up¡ªhe couldn¡¯t wait. He would finally be free, do as he pleased, go wherever he wanted, dream as much as his mind allowed, live somewhere else. To be honest, he didn¡¯t know much about what his adult life would be like either. He smiled¡ªhis mother and he were just as lost as each other. ¡­ It was already late. Every time he got lost in his thoughts, time seemed to pass strangely fast. He figured it was maybe because there were so many details. The rest of the day passed more slowly. He quickly ate whatever he could find. Dinner, as usual, was accompanied by silence and the sound of his mother¡¯s chewing. She didn¡¯t even mention the incident from the night before¡ªperhaps too ashamed. Talking about it would mean admitting she was aware of it. Diving into deep silence admitted nothing, just left the questions hanging. Nilem didn¡¯t care; he didn¡¯t want to talk about it either. He even wondered if he wasn¡¯t more ashamed than his mother about what had happened. After all, he was the one responsible for his father¡¯s death and, in turn, for everything that had happened since. A tear rolled down his cheek. His mother, without paying him much attention, simply ordered him to go to bed, saying she would take care of the dishes. With his head down, Nilem closed the door behind him. This time, he didn¡¯t have to wait long before hearing his mother¡¯s sobs. Without hesitation, he slipped under his blanket. Tonight, he was sure of it¡ªshe wouldn¡¯t come. He fell asleep.