The "Red Desert" was not just a name, but a cruel curse upon anyone who dared to challenge it and tried to live within it.
Crimson sands stretched endlessly, devouring any hope of life under the glare of a merciless sun.
The air was thick with heat, rippling over the sands like a demon, carrying with it abrasive dust that stung faces and choked breaths.
And in the middle of this barren hell, where shade was rare and water became a legend, the refuge of the runaways rose like an ugly wound on the body of the earth.
It was nothing more than stacked scrap; huts built from rusted iron sheets salvaged from the wreckage of old ships, torn with sharp edges that glistened beneath the sun like hidden blades.
Over them stretched strips of tattered cloth, trying in vain to block the heat, nothing but defeated flags fluttering over miserable ruins.
The whistling of scorching winds seeped through the holes in the metal, wailing high and low, as if the desert itself was lurking around this fragile haven.
At the heart of this ruin was a small square, its ground dust mixed with red sand. And at its center stood the marker.
It was nothing more than a rusted piece of metal, flat and twisted, forced violently into the ground.
It bore no name, no date, only a screaming silence that summed up the tragedy of whoever lay beneath it.
Around it they stood. A group of children, thin ghosts with faces hardened by life too early.
Wide eyes sunken into their sockets, pale faces beneath layers of dust and sweat, and frail bodies shivering under ragged clothes whipped by the wind. They stood in silence, some tears falling onto the hot ground and drying instantly, while the others held a silence harsher than crying.
Among them, Leon stood before the rusted iron piece, staring at it with sorrow and suppressed rage.
He was the oldest, perhaps fifteen, but his eyes carried a weight older than his years.
His tears did not dry; they boiled inside him, melted by a silent anger that clenched his fists until the faint glint of rusted metal reflected in his wandering eyes.
Every breath he drew from the scorching air added fuel to the fire consuming him from within.
Then he exploded, his voice hoarse, slicing through the whistling wind like a knife.
"What now?"
The younger ones flinched at the sharpness of his voice. They turned to him, bewildered. One of them whispered:
"What now… what?"
That simple phrase was all it took to make Leon erupt like a repressed volcano, unleashing all his fury on the children with him, his voice rising above the howling winds:
"What now after all this?! We live in hell! Food barely enough to fill a rat's belly! And our water… our water comes from the filthy sewage that pig Vulcan throws at us!"
His anger pushed him a step forward, his finger pointing toward the largest tent in the camp, where the harsh leader lived.
"And you! What do you do?! Nothing! All you ever do is obey that fat pig's orders and wait for death, or for a miracle that will never come!"
He took a deep breath, searing his lungs, then turned toward the iron piece in the ground, his voice dropping suddenly, carrying a pain that tore the heart:
"And look at what your passivity has caused! Henry died of hunger right before your eyes! You watched him wither day after day until he became skin and bone! And even at the end… you did nothing! Afraid of that bastard and his dogs!"
Necks bent, eyes hid in the dust, drowning in a sea of shame. Except for one.
It was Soren. He looked slightly less thin than the others, his clothes a little less torn. He was no more than twelve. He stepped forward, his voice feigning calm, reproaching Leon.
"You say we did nothing? And what did you do, Leon? Nothing! We know you're sad for Henry, but all of us here are powerless. We are only children; we cannot face Vulcan and his followers."
Soren's words did not calm Leon; they only fueled him further. He turned on Soren, his gaze full of disgust and accusation.
"How dare you, of all people, say that?! I don't know what you do for that bastard to get more food! But if you had even shared half of what you got with Henry, instead of hiding it in your pockets like a cowardly rat, Henry would still be alive today!"
Leon's words struck Soren like an arrow to its target. His face twisted with rage, and he lunged toward Leon, ready to attack, but the other children rushed in quickly, forming a feeble human wall between them.
A small girl stepped forward, the youngest of the group of five. Her black hair was braided into two thin plaits, and her large eyes were tired and sad.
She was Mira, eleven years old. She grabbed Leon's trembling arm, trying to calm him.
"Leon, we know you're angry and sad… we're all sad about Henry's death. But Soren is right, we can't do anything. We are only children…"
Leon shook his arm violently, shoving Mira away without looking at her. He looked at the circle of frightened, defeated children, and his face filled with absolute disgust.
"Children! Children! Don't you have any excuse other than this?! I don't care if you want to live like animals under that pig! But I won't. Tonight, I will escape this place, and whether you want to come with me, or betray me to that cursed bastard… I don't care."
Before any of them could utter a word, Leon turned his back on them all.
He walked away from the square, away from the iron marker, away from the children, away from everything.
Leaving them standing under the scorching sun, the hot desert winds carrying his final vow, and the cry of his rebellion hanging in the air like poison.
The silence in the square did not last long after Leon's departure, when suddenly the loud shout of one of the runaways tore through the tense quiet among the children:
"Soren, come here. The leader wants you."
At those words, Soren's face drained pale with fear, but at last he clenched his teeth and walked toward the large tent set in the middle of the runaways' camp.