“We weren't always called the Royal Marks. We were once the slaves for the Earth Markings. And your grandfather... Ruther... was one of those."
***
"Ruther, get the door," his mother called.
"Yes, Mom."
Ruther stood up from the dirt floor. His house wasn't royal. It was made of rotting wood.
But it was full of the warmth of his mother's cooking. His father was a man of hope. A revolutionary trying to say they weren't slaves. But hope has a price.
Ruther opened the door. Soldiers. The Palace Guard. "Yes, sir?" Ruther asked. "How can I help you?"
"Hey, kid. Is your father here?"
"No, he isn't, sir. Have a great day."
He closed the door calmly. He walked back to the ground. He started playing with rocks, building a small castle of his dreams—a place where the Glass people could be safe.
BOOM. The door exploded inward. Wood splinters flew like shrapnel.
The soldiers flooded the small room. They found his father hiding in the corner. They didn't ask questions. A sword through the chest. They executed him on the spot.
"Captain!" one soldier shouted. "Target is dead."
"Good."
One of the soldiers grabbed Ruther's mother by her hair. "Come with me, woman."
"Hey, Captain," another laughed. "What should we do with... both of those?"
The Captain waved his hand. "As you like. The rest of you, come with me."
The Captain left. Two soldiers remained. "Hey," one grinned, looking at the mother. "Should we, like... “he blinked towards the woman.
“Then kill the kid?"
"Yeah. Maybe we should do that."
They started tearing her clothes. Ruther watched.
For a second, he froze. Tears burned his eyes, but he forced them back.
He bit his lip until the copper taste of blood filled his mouth.
Ruther grabbed a kitchen knife.
He threw it. It spun through the air and buried itself in the first soldier's head. The man fell, dead before he hit the floor.
The second soldier froze in horror. Ruther didn't wait. He jumped onto the dining table. He launched himself into the air. He slammed a second knife into the soldier's neck.
The soldier screamed, thrashing, trying to throw the boy off. But Ruther held on. He twisted the knife. He pushed it deeper, sawing through the muscle until the blood sprayed hot and red.
The soldier fell.
Silence returned to the wooden house. His mother watched and she put her hand over her mouth and tears streamed from her eyes clutching her torn dress, and looking at her son.
Ruther looked at his hands. They were covered in blood. It was warm. Nothing like he expected.
He looked at his mother, and he exhaled until there was no air left in them.
"We have to move," Ruther said, his voice steady. His mother just nodded.
They moved to his Grandmother's house. But it was too dangerous. Ruther was on the target list. They searched for him everywhere.
He couldn't stay in one place. So, he became a ghost.
The streets were his home. The Rain was his friend.
Sometimes, he sang in the rain like the child he was supposed to be. Other times, he wasn't a child. He was a general, trying to build a gang to kill the Earth Soldiers.
For three years, he didn't know anything about his mother. Except that she was alive. He would see her from time to time. From afar. Watching her like a stranger.
Sometimes he cried for his life. But mostly, he cried for his friends.
Friends who died of sickness in the cold. Friends who died because of slavery. Girls were raped in the alleys. And soldiers were smiling and laughing doing it.
for most it was nightmares that they screamed from it in nights that had no light.
and they cried shouting their mother’s name, others didn’t sleep at all until they died from hunger or the cold.
and sickness was their friend who they didn’t ask for.
they didn't ask for it, but death came anyway.
most kids cried until there were no tears left to flow and others took the easy way and threw themselves in front of a carriage, or from roofs that let them have their freedom.
others ran to other realms seeking salvation but their was none.
***
It started with a father and his daughter in the market.
“Dad, can you buy me this new dress?”
“Maybe.”
“Dad, you know it’s my 17th birthday. I can’t stay with this dress; it’s getting too small.”
Her dad stayed silent for a moment, then he sighed. “Okay.”
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She jumped, chuckling, then she gave him a kiss. “I love you, Dad.”
The soldier didn't smile. He reached out and touched the fabric of her dress, letting his hand linger near her neck.
"Pretty fabric," the soldier muttered. "Wasted on a rat."
"Sir," the father stepped in. "Please don’t touch her.”
The soldier ignored him. He looked the girl up and down. "She's grown out of it. Let's see if she fits something else."
The soldier’s eyes drifted to the girl’s face, grabbing her hand.
“Get your hands away from my daughter!” The man shouted, throwing the soldier’s hand off.
The soldier stumbled back.
“An old man does all of that to you, Joshua?” One of the other soldiers laughed.
The soldier’s face became red. He ran at the old man, kicking him in the stomach.
The old man, who had seen too many winters, fell to the ground, hitting his head. The soldier kept kicking. His daughter ran to save him, but the other soldiers caught her.
“Where are you going, little bird? The party just started.”
They started tearing her clothes. The sound of fabric tearing was like the slash of a sword to the old man.
The old man struggled, but he couldn’t move. A soldier was sitting on him.
Five hundred people in the market.
Five hundred pairs of eyes. And every single one of them looked at the floor. They heard the tearing of the dress, and they studied the dirt on their boots.
Hours went by until the soldiers were satisfied.
But one of them wasn’t.
He picked up a heavy stone.
“NO,” the father whispered, struggling with what was left of his life force. “You took what you wanted. Nothing is left in her.”
“She is still breathing, old man.”
He slammed the stone into her head. Once. Twice.
She stopped moving.
But he didn't stop. He jumped on her body. He crushed her smooth fingers. Fingers that dreamed of holding a husband's hand. Fingers that should have wiped a child's tears.
Fingers that should have hugged them in the cold and blocked the sun from their eyes.
The sound of breaking bone was the sound of breaking hope.
In the background, the old man struggled, but there was nothing left of him.
After the soldier was done, he took her body and threw her in a nearby alley.
The soldier clapped his hands together.
“Now for you, old man. We made you something special.”
They tied him up. They made him crawl to the front gate, whipping him every time he slowed down.
At the gate, the old man looked up. He saw a big wooden cross. And above it, a banner:
THE SINNER
The old man was raised up. He didn’t scream.
That day he was crucified. No sound came from him. He hung there until he started to rot.
And no one raised a finger.
Until one day. An elderly woman—a grandmother to the street kids—was killed.
But it wasn't enough for them.
The soldiers cut off the old woman's head. They put it on a spike in the market square.
They grabbed passersby. A merchant.
"Pay your respects," the Captain laughed, shoving the man toward the spike. "Kiss her."
The merchant fell to his knees, his face draining of color. He clamped his hands over his mouth.
"I cannot!" the merchant screamed. "It is forbidden!"
The Captain kicked him in the back. "Do it."
"No! Please!" The merchant crawled backward, tears streaming down his face. "I kept them pure! For my mother! For my King!"
He looked up, sobbing, spit flying from his mouth. "I swore it to my wife! Do not make me break my vow! Take my hand! Take my eyes! But not this!"
"You talk too much," the Captain spat.
He grabbed the merchant by the hair. He forced his head down. The merchant screamed like he was burning alive.
They forced his lips against the rotting flesh of the grandmother.
Silence fell over the square.
When they let him go, the merchant didn't run. He sat there in the dirt, staring at nothing.
Then, slowly, he picked up a jagged stone from the ground.
He started smashing his own mouth.
Crunch. Crunch.
He destroyed his lips.
And at that moment... Ruther had enough. The kids of the street had enough. The time for hiding was over.
They started killing soldiers in alleys. Soldiers woke up to find their friends dead. Other times, they found them cut into pieces. Written in blood on the walls: "Your sins are coming to haunt you."
They kept doing this for four years. But Ruther had to step up.
Guerrilla warfare was effective, but it killed many of them and less of the soldiers.
The soldiers started poisoning the garbage, killing the rats. Everyone was killed. A mere coincidence meant death. A wrong breath meant death. A stare meant death.
But the soldiers made a mistake. The Princess was coming to this neighborhood.
To show her pity on the Glass People. For the Glass World, it was a chance to live like slaves, but in a more acceptable way.
But for Ruther... it was the Key.
Ruther went down to the sewers—to what they called home.
“Andree, did you do as I told you?”
Andree was only thirteen. He had blue eyes and blonde hair tied back with a dirty shoelace. He was leaning over a makeshift desk—a plank of wood polished by Andree’s own hands.
“It’s not good, Ruther. The Type 4s are just 60... but the Type 3s are over 100,” Andree said, rubbing his face.
“160, Andree. I don’t see a pr-“
“The problem, Ruther, is that our 160 are kids! Their ages are between ten and fifteen!” Andree shouted, slamming his hand on the wood.
"And my lookouts in the castle told me the Princess has 50 personal guards.”
“And because of what we did for the last two years, they are increasing it to 500.”
Andree panted, his chest heaving. “Ruther, we can’t do it. I am sorry, but there is nothing we can do with these numbers.”
“I am not saying we will win,” Ruther said softly.
Andree chuckled. “Yeah? So, what you are saying is that we are getting massacred.”
He pointed at the ceiling. “Ruther, these are soldiers that eat fresh bread and meat."
"Ruther, the last time I touched a tomato was a year ago. The last time I touched a fruit... it was two years ago. It was rotting, and I still ate it.”
“Andree, when did we ever have an advantage in this life? Do you think I chose this?” Ruther asked. “Do you think I chose to see my father murdered in front of my eyes?”
He stepped closer. “So at least... let me choose how I want to die.”
Andree looked away. “You can choose whatever you want, Ruther. But I am not going inside and convincing them to commit suicide.”
“Then I will do it.”
“You go and do it,” Andree said, walking out of the pipe to hide his tears.
Ruther took a deep breath. Then he entered the main room.
It was built with bits of stolen wood and tarp, making it look like a refugee camp underground. And there they were. The 160 kids.
The only sound in the room was crying.
They looked up. Toby stood up.
“Ruther... you can’t be serious, right?”
Ruther didn’t answer. He walked over and hugged him. He held him tight, then let him go and sat on the cold, wet floor with them.
“I know you are afraid,” Ruther whispered. “But what should we do?”
Alan, a small boy in the back, raised his hand. “Maybe... maybe we can run to the forest.”
Murmurs filled the room. Yes. The forest. We can hide.
“And the cold?” Ruther asked.
The sounds died instantly.
“People look at us. I have three holes in my shirt. How can we survive the winter in the forest like this?”
“Maybe we should steal,” another kid suggested.
Ruther shook his head slowly. “Steal?”
“If we steal... then there is no difference between us and them.”
He looked around at their dirty faces.
“Even if we go to the forest... or if we manage to run to the Earth Realm... we will still be called Slaves.”
“Everywhere we go, we will be Slaves. And our kids will be Slaves. And our grandchildren will be Slaves.”
Ruther stood up slowly.
“Don’t you resent the grownups? Because they are useless? Don’t you resent them because they let the old man get crucified and did nothing?”
10-year-old Malik stood up.
"I don't care about shame! I just don't want to hurt anymore.” he said, tears started to stream from his eyes.
“I'm hungry, Ruther. I'm just hungry."
“And I am too Malik, I haven't eaten for three days.”
“Malik the last thing I found was a rotting piece of bread, and I ate it.”
He pointed to an empty sleeping bag in the corner.
“Didn’t we resent them when our Charles died because of the cold? When he knocked on every door in this damn city and no one gave him even a rug?”
“we found him dead in a pile of snow.”
Ruther’s voice cracked. “How many times have we buried friends? Lovers? Parents? Because of those animals?”
“When was the last time you saw your parents? Most of us saw them die in front of our eyes.”
He looked at Toby. “So why should we live? Live for who?”
“Toby, didn’t your sister throw herself from the roof after she couldn't bear the shame?”
Toby looked down, fists clenching.
“Juan,” Ruther turned to another boy. “Didn’t your little brother drown himself when he couldn’t find food?”
Ruther spread his arms.
“If we are this close to dying... then let us die with honor. Let the grownups feel shame.”
“Let them know, when they are rotting in their cages, that we flew out of ours. That we tried to break the bars even when they couldn’t.”
“Let us kill those nobles who took our land and took our childhood.”
He raised a fist. “And if the day comes... let us kill the King himself.”
“And even if we don’t come back here again, then the suffering would end with honor.”
Silence fell on the room. For ten seconds, there was no sound except for the rats in the walls.
Then, Toby stood up. "We have no gold, we have no land!"
Two more stood, their voices shaky but loud. "We hold the stones within our hand!"
Five more rose. "The Soldier comes with steel and breath!"
A wave of them stood, a quarter of the room rising. “To sell us fear, to sell us death!”
In the back of the room, Andree walked back in. He wiped his eyes and raised his fist with them.
“But what is life? A cage of bone!”
half of them stood up.
“A prison made of flesh and stone! Our fathers rot in fear and rust, They eat the mud, they eat the dust!”
all of them stood up.
WE SELL THE CAGE! WE SELL THE SKIN! TO FREE THE SOUL THAT SCREAMS WITHIN! THEY BREAK THE BODY, BREAK THE LIMB, BUT WE BELONG TO NONE BUT HIM!
THROW THE LIFE UPON THE FIRE! RISE ABOVE THE MUD AND MIRE! WHO WANTS THE CRUST? WHO WANTS THE BREAD? WE EAT THE FRUIT OF GOD INSTEAD!
SWORDS CAN’T CUT WHAT IS NOT THERE! WE ARE SMOKE AND WE ARE AIR! LEAVE THE GROWNUPS TO THEIR FEARS! WE HAVE NO USE FOR WASTED YEARS!
OPEN THE GATES! THE PRICE IS PAID! WE RUN TO GLORY UNAFRAID! TASTE THE NECTAR! TASTE THE WINE! LEAVE THE ROTTEN WORLD BEHIND!
WE DIE WITH HONOR! WE SELL THE CAGE! WE EAT THE FRUIT! WE DIE WITH HONOR!
Sir Ghouls.
