The cheers of the crowd struck seven-year-old Emmett Thorne like a physical blow. He pressed his back to the rough brick of a side street. Beside him, nine-year-old Frederick trembled like a frightened animal.
They had followed the noise, thinking it was a festival, a celebration. They were right—just not in the way they hoped.
At the front of the parade, two men held up two poles. On each, a head.
The first was their father, Baron Caspian Thorne, one of the six barons of the kingdom of Citadel, his features frozen in defiance. The second was their mother, Regina, her dark hair still soaked in her blood.
Frederick sobbed, muffling his mouth with his hand. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Emmett did not cry. He only stared with a hollow look, his mind incapable of accepting or comprehending the trauma of seeing their heads on poles.
My eyes are dry. Why? Father and Mother are dead. I... I should be crying. It hurts so much, but... my eyes... they're dry.
He felt something in his chest crack, then snap shut, like a vault being sealed. The chaos of his emotions—the grief, the fear, the sorrow, the intense pain—was suddenly, violently snuffed out. All he felt was the rough texture of the brick against his back and the tremor of his brother beside him. The raw, searing pain of loss was gone, replaced by a deep, unnerving emptiness. His heart was not broken; it simply ceased to be.
He turned to look around the street, and what he saw worsened the matter.
The people of the city of Thorne had filled the streets laughing and cheering. Peasants and soldiers alike. The very people his father had ruled, the very people his mother had helped. They were happy. Happy that his parents were dead.
Only hours ago, life had been different. A new copper-colored automobile was parked outside the manor. An expensive black-and-white television in the parlor with the image of a politician in a black suit. Then came the crash of glass, the shouting, Baron Calvin's men pouring into their home.
Their mother had shoved them toward the servants' door, holding nothing but a heavy book.
"Run! Don't look back!"
she screamed, hurling herself into the path of armed men.
They had run until their lungs burned. Now, in this alley, Emmett stood frozen while his brother sobbed. A cold truth settled over him: humanity was weakness, a weakness that was sure to lead to ruin.
The days that followed the parade were filled with hunger and suffering. They slept in abandoned warehouses, their teeth chattering through the nights. They stole rotting fruit from market stalls and were chased away by vendors wielding sticks, shouts of "Thief" followed behind them.
Emmett's silence became a fortress, while Frederick's tears finally dried up, replaced by a hollow stare that was somehow worse. They didn't speak of their parents or the future. There was no future. There was only their hiding place, the next crust of bread, the next moment of not being caught.
One afternoon, crouched behind a dumpster, they saw a family negotiating with three men in suits. The leader wore a grey suit, the only clean thing in the alley.
"The girl's worth more than a month's rent,"
he drawled. Her mother weeps, but her hands push the girl foward all the same. This makes the girl's shirt slip slightly, revealing a flash of a strange, intricate symbol just beneath her collarbone. The man's eyes immediately lock onto it.
"She has the Mark. We'll pay extra."
Frederick gasped.
"They're selling her!"
Before Emmett could move, Frederick broke cover, stumbling into the open, his strong sense of justice getting the better of him.
"Hey! Leave her alone! That's not right!"
The man in the grey suit gave a tired sigh.
"Get lost, kid. This ain't your problem."
Frederick planted himself in front of the girl, fists balled.
"I won't let you hurt her!"
The girl—Briar Hayes, no older than eight—looked at him, her eyes filled with hope.
Emmett only watched with a cold detachment.
He's running. Why? He knows they'll kill him. He knows he's small, weak. Still, he runs. Like a fool.
One of the suited men drew a pistol.
BANG.
Frederick's eyes widened as blood splattered across his forehead.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
His body jerked with each shot before falling to the dirt. Briar let out a raw scream upon seeing him fall to the ground.
Meanwhile, Emmett stood before his brother's body, staring at it with a cold detachment. He felt nothing. Only clarity. His brother's humanity had gotten him killed.
Mother died because she cared for us. Father died because of his ambitions. Now Frederick died because he's soft.
It's all the same. It's all weakness, and weakness is a sin, punishable by death.
The suited men seized Briar, dragging toward a polished, mahogany-paneled clockwork automobile. Then one of them, the one who had killed Frederick noticed Emmett standing before his brother's body—expressionless, silent.
"Well, look at you,"
the man said with a cruel smile.
"You're coming too. Boss has a use for children like you."
He seized Emmett's arm. The boy didn't fight. Didn't scream. He let himself be dragged away, leaving Frederick's corpse in the dirt. Emmett's mind went through his parents' deaths and his brother's death.
Humans are monsters, that kill each other without mercy. If this is what it means to be human, then I renounce my humanity.