It was high summer—air thick, unmoving, swollen with light. The day had no borders; sun pressed down without mercy, drowning sound itself in gold. Beyond the heat, beneath that blazing dome of sky, the village of Arinthal lay still.
Only one pocket of cool existed there: the mansion of Mr. Jerry. The walls breathed conditioned air; polished wood shimmered with caramel hues that caught every flicker of sunlight filtering through glass. Under the ceiling fans, silence hummed—an expensive silence, held by power and design.
Outside those walls, other lives sweltered. Dust formed clouds under the quick feet of children crowding the mansion gates. They played with what summer offered: sticks, stones, imagination. A crude pattern of boxes scribbled on the dirt—the outline of kingdoms born for one afternoon. Each box bore a name.
A boy shouted, "Thanks, Sovey, for inviting us! Your mansion's garden is amazing!"
"So," another called out, "who's going to be blindfolded?"
Sovey, the host—the pampered daughter of the house—looked around. Her black hair clung to her forehead. "Let's make Aralan the blindfolded one today."
Cheers broke out. Aralan laughed, tied a strip of cloth across his eyes, spun once, and tossed a rock toward the ground. It clattered against one of the chalked boxes—Sovey's name.
The children erupted together: "Our Queen Sovey will rule today!"
Sovey lifted a paper crown from the ground—creased, lopsided, glittering faintly in the light—and set it on her head with grave ceremony. Thus began the game of kingdoms.
For twenty minutes, laughter belonged to everyone.
Then one boy, thin and serious-eyed, spoke in a smaller voice. "Sovey, I have to go. My father's ill. I need to work at the shop—washing dishes."
Sovey glanced up, frown forming. "No. You'll stay. The game isn't over."
"I don't have a choice," he said.
"No means no," her voice sharpened.
He hesitated, then compromised. "Fine. Just a few more minutes, then I'll go."
Forty minutes passed.
When he rose again, brushing dust from his knees, Sovey's eyes hardened. "Where are you going? I said you can't leave."
"But it's been too long already," he pleaded. "I can't stay."
The boy turned, took a step—and a hand caught his arm. James, another child, taller and stronger, held him back. "If she says you're not leaving, you're not," he said quietly.
"Right," Sovey echoed. "Listen to James."
Anger flickered through the captive boy's face. "Fine. A few more minutes then. I've told you."
Time stretched again. The sun beginning to fall did not cool the air. Until an hour and more had passed.
When the boy finally moved toward the exit, Sovey's voice sliced through the dusty yard. "If you go now, I'll tell my father to kill your entire family."
The world halted around her words. The air itself seemed to flinch. Children froze, mouths half open. Fear passed between them like an invisible current.
Silence lasted long enough for the threat to root itself. The boy stopped where he stood. Trembling, he stared back at her.
Another hour crawled by.
At last, something inside him broke free from obedience. He turned and ran—fast and desperate.
James turned at once. "Sovey, he ran. Should I go after him?"
"Yes. Run."
He hesitated. "To catch him?"
She smiled faintly. "No. Run forever. Don't come back. Anyone who can't breathe naturally has no right to live naturally. You, James. You're inferior. Leave."
His gaze shook. "Sovey, my asthma wasn't a choice. I didn't choose this."
She ignored his plea and flicked her fingers toward the guard stationed nearby. "Throw him out."
The guard looked lost. "But, miss… he's just a child."
Her tone dropped colder. "Don't make me repeat myself. Throw him out—or I throw you out. You're more replaceable than he is."
The man swallowed. "Understood, ma'am." He exchanged a glance with the gardener, then walked toward the boy.
James backed away. "What do you want?"
The guard didn't answer. Rough hands lifted him by the arm. James twisted, shouting, "Let me go!"
They dragged him back toward the others. Sovey waited, eyes narrow.
The guard kicked the boy to the ground before her. Dust rose around them, glowing faint under the light.
James didn't speak again. He simply ran, leaving the sound of his wheezing breath trailing behind until it vanished beyond the gates.
The game continued as though nothing happened. Yet every voice grew softer, every laugh shorter. Fear had turned play into obedience.
An hour later, sunset poured long shadows over the courtyard, signaling the end of games. The remaining children scattered—except three.
Sovey, the master's daughter. Her cousin Ashen, the son of Mr. Jerry's brother. And Frostveil, the blonde daughter of Jerry's wealthy ally.
Sovey brushed dust off her new dress. "Now that the peasants are gone, let's go somewhere they can't even dream of. Ant‑Vistop!"
The words alone carried weight: Ant‑Vistop, the grand amusement complex reserved for the elite—more theme city than park, its entry fee greater than most men's yearly wages.
Ashen grinned. "Of course."
Frostveil added, "Ready when you are."
At the edge of the yard, a uniformed guard approached. "Should I prepare the car, miss?"
Sovey tapped her foot lightly. "Not for you. Sam will accompany us. Your task is different. Kill the boy who ran from our game."
The guard stared, jaw slack. "Ma'am, I—"
Her interruption came sharp as wire. "Do not forget you are replaceable. Follow the order."
He swallowed, nodded once. "Understood."
As he walked away, thought tangled through his mind in silence: I joined to escape Mr. Jerry's cruelty, and yet she's worse. I need to find a way out before her power grows.
Sovey turned to the other guard. "Sam, you'll come with us."
Minutes later, the black sedan pulled out of the driveway and cut through the golden streets.
Ant‑Vistop rose from the city's edge like a structure built from glass and green. Acres of sculpted landscape, trimmed trees, mirrors reflecting simulated clouds. Even the air smelled fabricated—like mint and static.
Inside, vines coiled over marble arches, supporting overhead bridges of light. The complex called itself a "reconstructed survival park." Reality augmented through thin lenses strapped before the eyes—half illusion, half tactile deception.
To the children, it was routine luxury. To Sam, walking a few steps behind, it was a dream glimpsed through employment. He had never imagined entering except as a guard.
He thought quietly, The Ant‑Vistop project… they say it was modeled after Azytes land—the wilderness levels only the rich play for leisure. I've seen pictures. Never thought I'd step here.
He brushed a hand along a bright plastic railing, almost reverent. A week's access here costs what half my lifetime might produce. The players, mostly adults in their twenties. For someone like me, even the lowest ticket is impossible unless I stop eating for years. Games here are nothing for them, everything for us.
The children didn't notice his silence. Their minds already dissolved into joy as attendants fitted the VR gear over their eyes.
The illusion began. Vision warped; the world filled with artificial humidity and forest smell. Below their collective sight, an endless landscape of green mountains unfurled—a printed simulation, perfect and shallow.
The older attendants bowed and withdrew, leaving the trio in the flow of virtual wilderness.
Ashen, scanning the floating map projected before him, muttered, "We'll need seventy‑four healing sprays."
Sovey, eyes narrow through the visor, replied, "Take them."
Minutes later, Frostveil called from a hill projection. "Information feed says the Siren appears here only at night. That's our window to raid its lair. If we do it now, our points triple. Most teams don't know this detail."
"Then we go now," Sovey said. Unseen by others, a smile curved her lips beneath the visor.
They played for an hour. Artificial trees moved like shadows across real ground. The simulation's temperature matched the cool earth; only the colors were too bright, edges too clean.
When fatigue set in, Sovey lifted her visor, pulling back to the picnic table placed for "immersion breaks." She unpacked boxes from her bag—each sealed meal symmetrical, precise. "Ashen, Frostveil. Lunch."
Their voices brightened, free again for a moment. "Thanks for the food," they said together.
Frostveil reached for something inside her sleeve—a pair of silver bands gleaming faintly. "Give me your wrists," she said playfully.
They extended their hands. The metallic rings clasped around their skin with a click.
Ashen arched an eyebrow. "What's this for?"
Frostveil smiled, her tone carrying a soft chant. "Written by Jorn Messenger himself—the bands of bond. They strengthen friendship and heighten the happiness of shared victories."
Sovey chuckled lowly. "We could use some of that."
Moments passed in an easy rhythm. The buzz of distant machines replaced the sound of birds. Sovey picked a slice of fruit with a fork, held it before Ashen's face. "Open your mouth," she said gently.
His cheeks colored visibly even under the neon glow. He bit the fruit, chewed once, smiled. "It's sweet."
Frostveil laughed first; then all three did, their voices rising against the hum of synthetic air.
They ate, talked about points, strategies, and which illusions needed unlocking. Evening lights spread across the facility's roof—slow color shifts like water rippling through glass.
By the time sunlight faded beyond the plastic canopy, their laughter had softened into quiet rest. Sam waited at the entrance, arms folded, eyes tracing the enormous artificial trees swaying in timed rhythm.
When the children emerged, helmets tucked under their arms, Sovey looked pleased—perfectly content in her small dominion.
They stepped into the car again. The driver didn't speak, the city stretched behind them, and the road home wound quiet through the dying brightness.
At the mansion gates, the smell of polished wood returned, mingled with faint evening dust.
For one day, all cruelty was covered by laughter. The village still burned under the heat; the rich mansion cooled in silent grace.
And Sovey, gnawing a piece of fruit inside the car, smiled at her reflection in the tinted window—certain that giving and taking were the same when it was her hand that decided who received either.