Heat ruled the sky.
Light without mercy.
Air swollen, unmoving, thick enough to drink.
No shadows left—only glare.
The village of Arinthal shimmered in that gold, frozen under weight.
Nothing moved except the shimmer of dust.
Every sound dried halfway through air.
One place stayed cool.
The mansion behind steel gates.
Walls breathing mechanical chill.
Carved wood shining like molten amber under steady light.
Silence here cost money.
Outside, children gathered near the gate.
Feet beating dust.
Laughter thinning through heavy heat.
They drew chalk boxes—jagged kingdoms across the courtyard dirt.
Each box carried a name.
"Thanks, Sovey, for letting us play here!"
"Who's blindfolded first?"
Sovey lifted her hair from her damp forehead.
"Aralan," she said. "You start."
He laughed, tied the cloth, spun once, threw a pebble.
It landed on Sovey's box.
Cheers rose.
"Our queen! Queen Sovey rules today!"
A paper crown slipped onto her head, crooked and shining under sun.
The game began.
For a while, laughter filled everything.
For a while, the world seemed harmless.
Then one boy hesitated.
Voice softer than dust movement.
"Sovey, my father's ill. I need to go. The shop—he needs help."
She turned slowly.
"No. You'll stay."
"I have to," he murmured.
"No means no."
He swallowed.
"Five minutes more, then I'll leave."
Forty minutes passed.
He stood again, wiping dirt from his knees.
"Where are you going?"
Her voice cut sharper.
"I told you—you can't."
"It's been too long," he said. "Please."
A hand clamped on his arm.
James—the taller child—pulling him back.
"If she says don't go, you don't," he said.
Sovey smiled faintly.
"Good, James."
Anger cracked the air.
"I said I'll stay a bit. You can't keep me forever."
The day dragged on.
The heat thickened.
His patience broke first.
He stepped away.
Sovey's voice followed—light, almost careless.
"If you go now, I'll have my father kill your family."
Silence dropped.
Every head turned.
No one breathed.
The world shrank to her smile.
Then she looked away.
"Continue."
No one moved.
The boy turned. Ran.
Pure panic—small body cutting through dust.
James looked at her, uncertain.
"He ran. You want me to get him?"
"Run yourself," she said.
"Where?"
"Away. Forever."
He froze.
"What did I do?"
"You breathe wrong," she said. "Makes you weak. Weakness spreads."
The guard behind her shifted uncomfortably.
"Miss, he's a child."
Her tone turned steel.
"Obey. Or trade your place for his."
The guard obeyed.
James screamed once when they dragged him.
The mansion walls held the echo long after he was gone.
Play resumed.
Softer laughter.
Empty center.
Evening came.
Children scattered.
Three stayed.
Sovey, her cousin Ashen, and Frostveil—the daughter of her father's ally.
All privilege. All smiles.
Sovey shook dust from her skirt.
"Let's go somewhere the poor only dream of. Ant‑Vistop."
Ashen grinned.
"Perfect."
Frostveil clapped lightly.
"I've wanted to see it again."
A guard approached.
"Car ready, Miss Sovey?"
"Not you," she said. "Sam will come. You—handle something else."
He hesitated.
"Yes, Miss?"
"The boy who ran. End him."
He froze.
"But… Miss…"
Her eyes didn't blink.
"End him. Or end yourself."
His nod was small, defeated.
She was her father repeated—smaller, sharper.
Minutes later, the car left the mansion and merged into golden streets.
Ant‑Vistop rose like a dream engineered.
Glass, green metal, synthetic clouds.
Even the air smelled designed—mint, static, fake wonder.
Sam trailed behind them through the entrance.
He'd never entered before—a guard walking through paradise built for children of ownership.
Rumor whispered this park imitated the outer wild lands.
Virtual jungles layered over safe concrete.
Azytes fantasy mass‑produced for the rich.
"I used to stare at posters," Sam thought quietly.
"Never thought I'd step here."
He brushed the rail once. Warm plastic under his glove.
Worth a life's salary, maybe more.
The children didn't look.
Technicians fastened VR visors.
The real slipped away.
Colors replaced truth.
Green mountains. Digital humidity.
Artificial wind sweeping data‑leaves against programmed gravity.
Sovey, Frostveil, Ashen—heroes of simulation.
No hunger. No death.
Just progress charts glowing in their vision.
Ashen checked his map.
"We need seventy‑four healing sprays."
"Take them all," Sovey said.
Frostveil pointed ahead.
"Raid point shows higher at night. Let's strike now."
Agreement. Command.
Hour of virtual hunting followed—bright enemies, scripted triumphs, perfect victories coded for delight.
Eventually, Sovey lifted her visor.
Sweat dampened her forehead despite air conditioning.
She moved to the table shaded under artificial trees.
"Lunch," she said.
Boxes opened—food symmetrical like packaging ads.
Frostveil smiled, slipped thin metal bands from her sleeve.
"Bracelets," she said. "For friendship."
They obeyed.
Metal locked around their wrists with a soft click.
Light pulsed.
She whispered the advertisement curse.
"Bond rings strengthen trust."
Sovey laughed quietly.
"Maybe they will."
They ate, fed each other bites, traded short looks.
Almost human warmth under synthetic skies.
By sunset, they removed visors, shoulders aching from play.
Sam waited by the exit, still silent, eyes lifted toward the glowing canopy.
He wondered how long this dream would outlive him.
Back to the car.
Back through glass towers bending light.
Laughter filled the cabin—a cold copy of joy.
The day closed gilded and false.
Somewhere else, another storm gathered in silence.
"Why?" The voice broke the room's air.
Heavy. Sharp. Filled with contained violence.
Frostveil's father.
The boardroom glowed blue from wall screens.
Every paused second dripped pressure.
He stood beside the window, rain streaking down the glass.
"Why are my stocks dying?"
The secretary loosened his collar before answering.
"Doctor Marsh of CRC posted a soil‑restoration formula online.
If farmers apply it, Punchin fruit will multiply.
Price—zero. Supply—flood. Loss—total."
Frostveil's father didn't move.
Rain thickened reflection across his suit.
"Our pipeline runs on scarcity," the secretary whispered.
"This change will erase it."
"Solutions?" The question carved clean through the air.
Two.
The paper trembled in his hand.
One—sell high before the crash. Lose quietly.
Two—make Marsh withdraw. Permanently.
The silence thinned.
Outside, lightning fractured the sky.
Inside, he smiled faintly at the glass.
"You already know."
The secretary nodded once.
"Understood."
Evening melted over Arinthal.
Sky red‑amber.
Shadows stretched long and slow across cracked pavement.
Sovey sat in the car's back seat.
Ashen and Frostveil beside her, tired, glowing with leftover fun.
Then movement at the roadside.
A girl. Small. Ragged.
Metal bowl between her palms, a few dull coins clinking under dry wind.
Sovey leaned forward.
"Stop."
The car slowed.
She stepped out, annoyance shaped into grace.
Bent down just enough to speak above her.
"You beg after eating my food?"
Tone mocking, soft enough to cut.
"I don't know you anymore."
The beggar said nothing.
Eyes open but unseeing.
Sovey kicked the bowl.
Coins spun, scattered, vanished under traffic wheels.
She smiled and walked back to the car.
Ashen looked away.
Frostveil mirrored him.
No one spoke until the mansion reappeared under fading gold.
Night cooled the air.
Marble floors tempered to silence.
Servants spoke softly so sound wouldn't stain luxury.
"Stay over," Sovey said lightly.
"We'll talk."
Frostveil shook her head.
"Tomorrow. My father wants me home early."
Sovey nodded.
"Tomorrow, then."
When she left, Sovey caught Ashen's sleeve.
"Come on. Too quiet out here."
They crossed into the hall.
Dinner passed in mechanical rhythm—father, servants, silence.
Forks met plates like faint chimes.
Routine replaced family.
Later, upstairs, lamps dimmed to amber.
Sovey collapsed onto her bed, arm over her eyes.
"Good night."
No response.
She turned her head.
Ashen sat unmoving.
Eyes fixed.
"What?" she asked flatly.
"I like you," he said.
Her hand froze mid-motion.
"Don't," she said after a pause.
"We're blood."
"I don't care."
Her palm struck.
Sound sharp enough to echo against glass jars.
"I do," she whispered.
He sat still.
Color gone.
Her eyes closed again.
"Tomorrow, new rooms," she said.
The sentence ended everything.
Silence until dawn.
Morning.
Humidity crawled out of the rising heat.
Cicadas droned like static.
Children gathered again.
Same chalk boxes.
Different eyes.
James gone.
The boy who ran gone.
No reason given.
Just closed houses—empty, final.
Ashen absent too.
Sovey arrived late, crown already tilted on her head.
"Let's play," she said.
They obeyed.
The first stone landed on Frostveil's box.
"Frostveil is king!" someone shouted.
Sovey's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"No."
Frostveil blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"Guards," Sovey said, "remove her."
One guard hesitated.
"She's your father's ally's daughter—"
"She was," Sovey said. "Not for long."
The guards obeyed.
Dragged Frostveil across the dirt.
Her voice cracked—anger, disbelief.
"You'll regret—"
The gate closed behind her word.
Sovey turned back. Calm.
"Continue."
The same blindfold.
A new toss.
The stone landed on Aralan's name.
He laughed in disbelief.
"My turn! I'm king now!"
Sovey's voice came soft.
"No, you're not."
"Why not?"
"Because garbage doesn't rule kingdoms."
He glared at her.
Then stepped forward.
And hit her.
The sound froze every muscle in the yard.
Tiny dust motes hung midair.
Her eyes widened, then filled instantly.
"Cut off his arm," she said, choking on tears.
"Tomorrow, kill his family in front of him."
The guards paused—a second too long.
Then moved.
The scream was short.
Blood darkened soil faster than voices could return.
Sovey watched, wiped her cheek dry, nodded once.
"Continue the game."
They did.
Laughter replaced by obedience.
Play replaced by silence.
By dusk, the yard emptied again.
No one looked back.
Inside the mansion, new voices rose.
Two men.
Brothers.
Sound barely restrained by walls.
"Sixty‑seven percent," Jerry shouted.
"Mine. The mansion, the store beneath it—mine."
"You accuse my son, destroy your house, and talk of shares?" the brother said quietly.
"You've gone mad."
"He confessed," Jerry barked.
"Don't think I ignore what you breed under my roof."
"You'll get your land," the brother said, steady.
"And nothing else."
Jerry hit the table.
"Thirty‑three percent. Final."
"Then keep your house," the brother said, voice cutting through noise.
"Walls rot with you faster than time would."
He turned away.
Door slammed.
That echo lived longer than family.
Upstairs, Sovey watched night insects flicker against window glass.
Outside, the raised voices dulled to rumble.
Inside, she smiled faintly—something in the world arranging itself in her favor.
In another room, Ashen packed quietly.
His father's voice muffled behind walls.
The decision already sealed.
By dawn, their carriage left.
No one watched them go.