Fernando's eyes never left the hourglass — five minutes. The glow of the sand threw a red smear across his face. He glanced at Yaman: the boy's jaw worked, hands clenching, the strap of his shotgun creaking against his back. The lacrima bombs at his hip caught the firelight like small, wicked hearts.
Fernando's voice was a low, steadying thing. "How many of those bombs do you have?" he asked, almost casual.
Yaman blinked at the question, surprised by the quiet. "Seven," he said, teeth set.
Fernando's smile was small, almost a ghost of something like pride. "Good. I want you to do something dangerous. Can you do it?"
Yaman's eyes flared. Fire lived there now. "Yes, Dad. Tell me."
Fernando's expression softened for the barest instant. "Look for the small craters around the square — the cooled vents and pits the lava left. Plant each lacrima bomb in a crater. Time them to go when the mountain roars. When the craters wake, the bombs will detonate with the fury of the volcano itself. The flashes will blind them. The blast will carve open their lines. One strike, then we pull the hostages down."
Yaman nodded once, voice tight. "They're dormant now."
"Perfect," Fernando said. "Five minutes. That's all we get." He tapped the edge of the hourglass, then pressed his hand to Yaman's shoulder. "I trust you, Yaman. Do it."
Yaman slid down the slope like a shadow, boots barely whispering against volcanic gravel. Below, the square was a living maelstrom — wine sloshing, gamblers shouting, a chorus of cruel laughter. The torches made everyone look gilded and monstrous. He hugged the rock, darted between outcroppings, and when he slipped into gaps in the crowd he did so like a wraith.
The first crater was small — a mouth of cooled basalt rimmed with ash. Yaman sank a lacrima bomb into it, thumbing the timing dial to sync with the mountain's next tremor. He felt the weight of it like a heartbeat. He pressed ash into the groove, then wiped sweat from his brow. A drunk staggered by, hiccupping and singing a bawdy refrain. He bumped the platform, eyes glassy, and spat. "Look at the kid—playing with toys," the drunk slurred. "Gonna buy the little brat a ticket to hell!"
Yaman's hand tightened on the bomb. He thought for half a second of Marilyn, of the butcher wrapping his meat with shaky hands, of that girl on the platform clutching her mother. He swallowed the bile and moved on. Six to go.
At the second crater a gambling pair argued over a prize. John, the Treasure Hunter, laughed as Catherine licked her lips at the women on the stage. They paid him no mind; even greedy men have blind spots for the things they want most. Yaman slid the second lacrima into place beneath their feet and tugged a loose rock over it. A child dropped a tray nearby; a guard kicked the boy for being clumsy. Yaman's hands shook but his feet were iron.
At the third, Maria the Tamer cracked her whip, laughing as slaves spat blood. She noticed nothing. A satyr-faced gambler stumbled close, hiccupping, and mock-whispered to a companion, "Bet he's planting fireworks. Kid's got guts… or a death wish." The companion grinned and tossed a coin in the dirt. The words stung, but didn't stop him. Third set. Four to go.
The fourth crater was near a row of crucified bodies — the nails shone black where blood had dried. Yaman's stomach lurched. An ugly man kicked a cross for sport; the sound echoed like a bell. Yaman crouched, tamped the bomb into the pit, and for an instant his hands trembled so badly he thought it would all fall apart. He whispered, barely hearing himself: "Forgive me." He smeared ash over the mechanism and wiped his palms on his shorts.
At the fifth, Jack — the laughing pyromaniac — had just set off a string of small lacrima fireworks that burst in red and gold above the crowd. The square erupted in roars, which worked to Yaman's favor: noise made blindness more complete. He crawled beneath overturned tables, nudged a bomb into a deep, glassy crater, and almost tripped over a spilled purse. A woman cackled as she swapped a prize for a slave, and a man yanked his drink over a corpse as if watering a plant. Yaman kept his face a mask until his breath settled. Two left.
The sixth was risky — near the thrones of the Three Disasters. Kur's laughter rolled like distant thunder. Plague idly toyed with a vial, smiling a sick grin. Einar chewed on meat the size of a man's head. A guard with a spear looked Yaman's way for a heartbeat; the boy flattened himself into a shadow and held his breath. The guard spat and turned, interested instead in a fistfight breaking at the gambling table. Yaman moved, every nerve a bell. He wedged the sixth bomb in a fissure rimmed with glassy black rock and sealed it with ash. One left.
The hourglass bled sand — two minutes. The priest's chant rose, the crowd's voices swelled into a ravenous sea. Yaman's chest hammered. He felt raw, exposed — every step could be his last. He crawled low, squeezing between legs, clods of ash falling from his hair. A masked gambler glanced down at him and laughed, a dark little sound: "Look, a rat — joining the show!" The crowd barked laughing like dogs. The comment scraped at Yaman's pride, but he kept moving.
The seventh crater was the deepest, a yawning scar the volcano had left like a wound. It sat close to the base of the platform, dangerously near the guards. Yaman slid into it, sweat stinging his eyes. He set the final bomb, fingers shaking as he fixed the timing. He could almost hear the machine's tiny heartbeat clicking into place — seven pulses synchronized to the mountain's roar. He pushed ash over the mechanism and closed his palms until the dirt colored his fingernails black.
He straightened slowly, trying not to be noticed. A gaunt man with a crooked grin brushed past him, jerking back at the smell of ash on his clothes. "You smell like the mountain, boy," the man jeered. "Go pray to your ancestors now — you'll join them soon." The man's laugh was a wet sound. Yaman swallowed a scream and moved, slipping toward the slope
Fernando tracked every ghost of his son with hawk's eyes
Yaman echoed, breathless. "All seven." His voice was thin,
Yaman's hand drifted to the strap of his shotgun. The lacrima bombs at his belt throbbed faintly, synced with the sleeping craters below. The volcano gave a long, hungry groan; sparks rose
---
The seventh crater swallowed the last bomb like a black maw. Yaman's hands lingered over the ash a heartbeat too long, smearing it with trembling fingers. His chest burned from holding his breath. The crowd's laughter roared above, oblivious.
He rose slowly, body stiff, and glanced toward the slope where his father hid. For a moment he almost bolted back — almost let his legs carry him to Fernando's side, to that fleeting safety. But no. Too far. Too many eyes. Too much risk.
Instead, he slipped sideways into the shadow of the execution platform. The wood smelled of blood and oil, sticky where drips had run down. Shackled prisoners above whimpered in the half-dark. He crouched in a nest of discarded chains, the metal still warm, hidden from most angles.
His heart was a hammer. Thump. Thump. Thump. So loud it felt like it would give him away. Every breath rasped against his throat. He clenched his shotgun tight, its stock slick with sweat.
Voices rolled over him like waves: gamblers roaring at their cards, Maria's whip cracking flesh, Jack howling as another blast rattled the night. And above all, the priest's chant— rising, rising, until it scraped the ceiling of the volcano like claws.
Yaman shut his eyes for a beat. Don't think. Don't falter. You are invisible. You are death waiting to strike. He remembered Fernando's voice: "I trust you, Yaman. Do it."
His pulse quickened. Dad, I won't fail you. Even if I die here, you'll know I fought like your son.
Someone staggered near — a drunk wizard, piss-stained, sloshing wine from his cup. He squinted at the shadows, muttering, "Who's skulking down there? Hiding rats? Come out, eh?" His boots scuffed closer.
Yaman's grip tightened on the shotgun. His finger twitched over the trigger. The man leaned, peering into the chains. For an instant, Yaman could see the whites of his bloodshot eyes.
Then — chaos saved him. A scream ripped from across the square as one of the crucified hostages bucked against their cross, coughing blood. The drunk whipped his head toward it, cackling. "Dance for us, meat!" He staggered away, distracted.
Yaman's breath shook out in relief. He curled back into the dark, every muscle rigid.
The hourglass above bled its last grains. The priest spread his arms wide, voice booming: "Rejoice, sons of shadow! Zeref shall drink this blood, and we—"
The volcano groaned. Sparks spat from the craters. A sulfur wind snaked through the square, hot and bitter. Yaman felt the ground tremble beneath his knees.
It's time.
His heartbeat roared in his ears, louder than the crowd. His hand slid to the detonator crystal bound to his last bomb. The one Fernando told him to trigger on cue. He mouthed a prayer — not to gods, but to the mountain itself.
Then he waited. Hidden, small, invisible. A boy crouched in chains beneath a stage of monsters.
Waiting for fire.
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