The rocking of the cart tightened the throat even of an experienced driver. The wheels chewed through poorly cut stones, spitting vibrations that climbed up her ribs and made her stomach dance as if it were being squeezed. The girl woke damp with vomit, the world spinning in waves; she vomited once more, dry, then again, a bitter taste of bile and metal. She was trapped in a cage on wheels — the prison cart the city used to parade the condemned. The thick slats of the bars left her exposed: her body in full view, her shame at the mercy of alien eyes.
She had never imagined that contempt could have texture. There were smells — urine, the briny stench of mud, the acid of people who had drunk too much. There were voices: comments, blasphemies, short laughs. And there were those who hurled tiny, tangible insults — a crust of bread, a handful of mud. The worst threw heavier things; some spat. She was there to be seen and defeated.
But what burned inside her was something else: the sharp awareness that, for many, she was only a symbol. For some, someone applauding barbarity; for others, a familiar child abruptly torn from a known life. The people who knew her — the broad-stepped baker, the boys who used to receive her leftover food — stopped. A murmur ran through them, hesitant: recognition. The baker stepped forward, broad body, and spoke in a broken voice:
"Let the girl go. What did she do?"
The words did not break the world's ropes, but they were a thread that slipped into the cracks. Someone wet her mouth with water; it was a gesture as small as a breath of humanity, coming from the same hand that had also brought warm bread. The memory held her fast: the baker's face, hands dusted with flour, the same shy care of a familiar acquaintance. The water slid down her throat and brought back a fragment — the memory of one who loved her mother, and of a home that now seemed light-years away.
Shame, despair, fear, hatred, and loneliness piled up like stones on her chest. Each feeling hollowed her out until she felt empty; anger was a hot iron she did not know how to wield. She no longer wanted to live — and, at the same time, could not conceive of an end that was not a scream. She thought of her mother, trembling and alone, of the hope that still existed in that sleeping face.
Those who recognized her could not come close for long: armed men formed a ring around her, a wall of silence and steel that sometimes allowed approach — only to brusquely push everyone away shortly after.
Those who didn't know her read the scene with gentler eyes: there was a beloved girl, and something monstrous had broken the natural order of things. The Empire does not err — this was the belief that guided the line of guards. But the same certainty made the people whisper, uneasy, like those afraid of thinking too much:
"What if, for some reason, justice had stumbled?"
The doubt fermented on their faces, thickening the air.
After all, she was just a girl.
She wanted to die and, at the same time, begged for someone to say it was all a mistake. The thought wounded her: if she died, her mother would be left helpless.
Something stirred against her back — a weak sound, almost a sigh. At first the girl thought it was just another pain, a spasm from the beatings, the forced sleep, the dry heaving. But when she turned her body with effort, the nausea gave way to a different wave: surprise, then a tiny warmth, and finally a relief so delicate it almost made her cry again.
Curled among mud and rags, trapped in the slats of the cart as if it were more trash, there was a creature so small and fragile it seemed to have come from a broken dream: a baby wyvern, wings still crumpled, scales not even properly dried. The creature trembled, huge dark eyes searching for a familiar face, a harbor. Upon seeing the girl, the hatchling moved its head with childish trust — as if recognizing someone who had also been torn from their world.
She pulled it against her chest in an embrace so urgent that the wooden cage creaked. The wyvern laid its tiny head on her lap, exhaling a trembling warmth; for a second, the feeling of abandonment gave way to something like hope. The tears returned, this time mixed with a hoarse laugh: she couldn't die now — not with that nestled in her arms.
"I'm sorry…"
she murmured, her voice wounded.
"I'm sorry you were born like this… I never thought that…"
A chorus of insults and curses scraped the air. There were always those who took advantage of spectacle with bets and mockery; others defended her — the baker, the boys who used to receive crumbs — and the look of those who knew her rose like a fragile shield between her and the strangers. Someone threw a little water; someone murmured for them to let her be. But the guards did not yield. The cart went on its way as if nothing had changed.
She tightened her grip on the hatchling. She felt it first as a tingling, then as a wave rising from her shoulders to the center of her chest: a strange energy, neither heat nor combustion, but a cutting cold that settled around her heart. The egg — now split, its shell broken — had pulsed before, and the light that burst from it seemed to have entered them both. The wyvern's scales shimmered with reflections that were not just color, but a signature: a snowy, exotic white, a white that laid ice upon the flesh and clarity upon the mind.
The sensation invading her was twofold: comfort and corrosion. There was tenderness for that tiny being; at the same time, there was a deep rage that did not resemble the blind hatred of the streets. It was a calibrated hatred, like a lens that made everything smaller — less human, more animal. A primitive urge to cut the world into pieces. She felt the idea being born, crude and precise: if the world had betrayed her, then the world would pay. Not out of petty rancor, but through a cleansing that was beginning to take shape within her, as white and cold as the hatchling's light.
She did not fool herself: this was not something written in the books of the winged. It was not flame, nor lava fury; it was not the overwhelming heat of the brave. It was ice that froze more than skin — it froze intentions, made every thought clear and lethal. It was lethal patience, a reasoning born of fear and transformed into purpose.
When they saw the wyvern, the people erupted into contradictory reactions. Those who had come to mock howled; others clapped in surprise; some townsfolk, who knew her by sight, covered their faces, torn between horror and compassion. Guards tightened their ranks, eyes sharper. A few, sensing the silent power now surrounding the girl and the hatchling, stepped back. The energy emanating from them was not merely visual — it made the air feel denser, like the moments before a snowstorm.
She closed her fingers around the small creature's neck and whispered, not a plea, but an invocation:
"Give me your strength. Now."
The answer came as cold coursing through her bones: a calm, glacial wave that assented within her veins. The wyvern pressed its snout to her clavicle, and for a fraction of a second she felt the entire world equalize into a single unit — enemies, friends, stone, blood — all outlined by a line she could now see. Hatred ceased to be chaos; it became a map.
She was not foolish. She knew how dangerous it was to let rage rule her. But she also understood that sometimes fury was the right tool: precise, sharp, relentless. And in that instant, with the little wyvern chilling her body with a cutting cold, the girl learned to turn her despair into purpose. People could sense the change, even if they could not name it.
The cart continued on its route, and she, her chest tight, drew a long, endless breath. It was not resignation. It was decision. The world that had cast her out in such a way would have to answer.
The cart's progress lasted hours, but the girl who had once curled into a fetal position no longer existed. Standing upright, the small wyvern perched on her shoulder, she faced the world with eyes that seemed to cut flesh merely by resting upon it. The silence around her was not only respect — it was fear. Even the elders, who had witnessed battles and executions, looked away.
"We've arrived."
A high-ranking captain, rigid in his polished armor, stepped forward to open the cart's gate. But his hands trembled — and she could see it.
"Soldier, go. Bring the girl."
The subordinate swallowed hard. His legs barely obeyed as he climbed onto the cart. He approached, trying to force what courage he had left, but the moment he raised his hand to touch her, the little wyvern lunged.
The bite was subtle, almost delicate. The soldier felt only a searing cold, as if an invisible fist were crushing his entrails. He looked at his hand — and what he saw was not flesh, but absence: a stump where blood did not gush, but crystallized into crimson stalagmites. The ice spread like blue veins running beneath the skin until it covered his arm, chest, face. The scream that tore from his throat did not sound human.
In seconds, the man writhed on the stones of the square, thrashing against the ground, his skin cracking like ice in the height of summer. Then he went still. His body became a perfect statue of ice, terror frozen into his expression.
Everyone stepped back. Even the captain.
Distracted by horror, he did not notice when the girl stepped down from the cart and appeared before him. Her shadow stretched like a spear at the man's feet.
"Where do I have to go?"
The voice was low, but cutting. An icy breath accompanied each word, and the captain felt the chill of death climb his spine. He swallowed his pride along with his fear and merely pointed, with a trembling gesture, toward the dark arch behind her.
"The coliseum…"
his voice faltered.
"I don't know the reason. We only had orders to escort you. Please…"
Before his composure could collapse into sobs, the girl had already turned away. She walked in silence, the snow white wyvern steady on her shoulder. The guards opened a path, eyes lowered, none of them daring to touch her. No one even risked breathing loudly as she advanced.
The dark corridor leading to the Coliseum swallowed her next. And for an instant, even the sound of boots against stone seemed to vanish, replaced only by the icy echo of the doubt hanging over everyone: who was this girl?
The wood cracked like the roar of a beast. The corridor doors flew wide open and, in the spilling light, an arena appeared — and within it other figures: girls and boys with wide eyes, bodies stiff with fear, traces of chains on their sleeves. They looked like echoes of her: winged, marked, drained of color and hope. They moved forward in dragging steps, as if something invisible muted their will.
The guards stepped back instinctively. They had done their part — bringing the prisoner this far; from there on, the work belonged to the Coliseum. The commander, in turn, felt an almost tangible relief cross his rough face when he saw her move alone into the arena. It was a responsibility changing hands, like a burning torch — and he had no wish to hold it.
When the thick, twisted metal gate finally gave way, arrogance returned to the commander's face, foaming like old, bitter pride that insisted on rising to the surface. He drew his blade and, pointing it at the girl, spat:
"I hope you die today."
The captain's words landed like a blade.
The girl lifted her chin. Her disheveled hair no longer hid her; it revealed a transformed face. Her eyes, once wet with pain, now sparkled with a glacial light. It was not just rage: it was a wound that had learned to sharpen itself into a weapon. A smile bloomed on her lips — brief, almost involuntary, but terribly sharp, like a translucent blade wielded by someone who had already broken.
The wyvern on her shoulder growled low, a sharp sound that vibrated through the air like a taut copper wire. Small, but enough to cut through the space as a warning: there was something alive there, ready to answer any unspoken command.
The reaction was immediate. Guards who moments before had felt relieved to be rid of a monstrous burden held their breath; some stepped back, unaware that the solid iron gate separated them from that threat. The captain, who had expected submission, felt stiffness creep up his neck. His smile wavered. For the first time that morning, he perceived the lethal note hidden in that calm.
She did not need to shout. Her presence was enough — the cutting gaze, the restless little wyvern, the smile that was no longer human. The guards reorganized in silence, voices dropping to whispers. A light wind carried with it the sensation of frost, coating the stones in sudden cold. The smell of metal grew stronger, the clinking of armor sounded sharper, and even the muffled sound of someone swallowing their fear seemed to echo.
The tension was severed by a heavy silence, followed by the distant blare of ceremonial trumpets. A deep, measured voice, wrapped in ritual authority, echoed through the coliseum as if reciting an ancestral decree:
"Welcome, all, to the First Cleansing of the Traitors. Today, justice shall be done in the name of the Empire. Let the guilty meet their end, and let the loyal witness the rebirth of order."
The stands answered with restrained, almost choreographed applause; a light curtain of smoke rose from the censers, rendering the air solemn. The announcement sounded less like a threat and more like an official rite — a public sentence wrapped in ceremony.