Chapter 4: A War Name

São Dantas Orphanage

The bell rang again, its hoarse clang summoning the children to the chapel. The boy rose from the dining hall table, following the flow of children, noticing how the nuns occasionally struck their rulers or clubs against the backs of those walking too slowly.

The chapel resembled a medieval church, its stone walls cracked and adorned with countless portraits of saints, most with hyper-realistic eyes that seemed to watch the children. At the altar, a statue of Jesus Christ, the Ascended, dominated the space—a figure carved from dark wood, a thorny cross on its back and a sword of nails in its hand, its face stern, almost cruel, with a single glowing eye that seemed alive. Dozens of candles on the altar dripped wax onto the floor, and the vaulted ceiling was stained with soot, as if the air itself were burning. The children were lined up on hard pews, their thin bodies hunched, eyes fixed on the altar or the floor, none daring to look sideways.

Father Arture stood at the pulpit, his long arms clutching a Bible while his other hand performed a blessing, his sunken eyes gleaming in the candlelight. The stigma on his palm was visible, more prominent this time, and he began the prayer, his voice slow and hypnotic, like a chant that ensnared the mind.

“O Lord Prophet, Jesus the Ascended, who cut down pagan kings and bathed the earth in their blood, guide these fragile souls. Teach them strength, obedience, the glory of your thorny cross. Purify their sins with your sword of light!”

The children repeated the words in unison, their voices monotonous, as if reciting a spell. Ka murmured along, but the words felt empty, meaningless to him, an echo of something he didn’t feel. He saw the children around him, their faces blank, eyes glazed, as if undergoing brainwashing, becoming obedient, will-less drones.

The obese nun patrolled from a corner, but unlike usual, she seemed entranced by the prayer, distracted. The boy also noticed the blond girl, Bile, wasn’t there, a fleeting wave of concern washing over him.

Suddenly, Ka felt something different—a tug on his sleeve, subtle but firm. He turned and saw the older boy, the one who’d tripped him in the dining hall, with a curious appearance: a zigzag scar on his neck and shaved head. Unlike the others, his eyes weren’t glazed; there was something sharp in them, as if he hadn’t yet succumbed to the place’s brainwashing.

“Stay quiet and follow me,” the boy whispered, his voice so low it was barely audible under the chant. He stood, taking advantage of the distracted nun, and signaled for Ka to follow. They slipped to the back of the chapel, where the shadows were denser, and exited through a side door into a narrow, hidden corridor.

Ka stopped, eyes narrowed, fist clenched. “What do you want?” he asked, voice low but firm. “If this is about tripping me again, it won’t be so easy this time.”

The older boy laughed, a short, dry sound without joy. “Relax, newbie. I’m not your enemy.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring at Ka. “Name’s Davi. And you’re Ka, right? The forest kid Father Arture’s so interested in.”

Ka frowned, body tense, ready to run or fight. “How do you know that? And why’d you pull me out here? Everyone’s too busy praying to that weird god.”

Davi shrugged, a mocking smile returning. “I know things that go on in this place. Either you learn to stay sharp, or you turn into one of those zombies in there, reciting prayers until you forget who you are.” He pointed to the chapel door, from where the chant’s echo drifted. “They want to turn you into one of them, you know? A puppet that obeys, doesn’t think. But you don’t seem like the type to break easily, and honestly, neither am I.”

Ka crossed his arms, eyes fixed on Davi, trying to read his intentions. “And you? Why do you care? What do you want?”

Davi laughed again, this time with a hint of respect. “You’re suspicious, huh? Good. You’ll need that. Look, I’m not a saint, but I’m not like them either.” He jerked his thumb toward the chapel. “I’ve been here too long to know how it works. Father Arture, the nuns... they’re not saving anyone. They’re building something. And worse, Arture’s involved in the worst kind of stuff you can imagine. Why do you think they’re doing this to everyone?”

Ka felt a chill but didn’t let it show. “And you? What do you get out of telling me this?”

“Maybe I just want someone who’s not a coward.” Davi stepped closer, voice lower. “There’s stuff going on here. Things you’ll see, sooner or later, if you keep your eye open. And if you want to survive, you need someone who knows the game. I can help you. Show you how to avoid the worst beatings, where to hide food, how not to end up in the basement.” He paused, eyes narrowed. “But there’s a price. You help me when I need it. Nothing’s free, sweetheart.”

Ka stayed silent, the idea of an ally, even one with such dubious intentions, better than facing the orphanage alone. “Alright. But if you try to screw me over, Davi, I’m not as weak as I look.”

Davi smiled, this time with a genuine glint in his eyes. “Fair enough. I like that.” He pointed down the corridor. “Get back to the chapel before the nun notices. And don’t forget: here, everyone’s watching you, even when you think they’re not. We’ll talk more later.”

Ka nodded and slipped back to the chapel, sliding onto the pew as the chant continued, the children’s voices echoing like a chorus of ghosts.

The chant in the chapel ended with a final muffled echo, and the bell rang again, a sound that was already becoming an invisible chain for Ka. The children rose from the pews, their faces blank, moving like shadows toward the next task.

The obese nun shouted, “To the courtyard, you worms! Work now! Anyone who lags goes to the basement!”

The damp corridor led to the back courtyard, a space enclosed by cracked stone walls, covered in dry earth and dead weeds. Maragônia’s gray sky seemed to press down on the place, and the smell of rust and sweat filled the air. In the courtyard’s center, piles of broken stones, rotten planks, and burlap sacks filled with something heavy awaited. Two nuns stood watch, clubs in hand, while a burly man with a patchy beard and a grease-stained apron barked orders. “You know what to do!” he roared, voice hoarse. “Stones to the wall, wood to the shed, sacks to the mill! MOVE, YOU USELESS BRATS!”

The children scattered, each taking a task without question. Ka hesitated. Davi, the boy with the neck scar, carried a plank with ease, but his eyes were always moving, as if mapping every corner of the courtyard. Ka was shoved by a nun, her club grazing his back. “Move, kid! Grab the stones, or you’ll feel the leather burn!”

He bent down, picking up a jagged stone, its weight making his arms tremble. The rough surface cut his hands, but he gritted his teeth and carried it to the courtyard’s edge, where other children stacked blocks to repair a crumbling wall. The work was exhausting, the sun offering little warmth, but sweat dripped anyway, mixing with the dirt on his tunic.

A smaller boy with sunken eyes dropped a stone, and a nun with a milky eye struck her club across his back, the dry sound followed by a muffled whimper. “No mistakes!” she shouted as the boy cowered, grabbing the stone with trembling hands.

Ka felt rage swell as he gripped the stone, the same feeling that drove him to crush the headless wolf in the forest. He wanted to scream, to hurl the stone at the nun, but the weight of all the eyes on him kept him silent. He carried another stone, muscles burning, thinking maybe this routine would make him stronger...

The man in the apron shouted orders nonstop, pointing at the material piles. “Faster, you useless lot! Father Arture wants the wall done before the next bell!”

The courtyard was a forced labor camp, where the smallest slip brought pain. Ka saw a small girl with dirty braided hair stumble with a sack, its contents—rotten grains mixed with dirt—spilling out. Before the nun could approach, Davi appeared, helping her gather it with rehearsed speed. The nun watched but didn’t strike, just muttered something and turned away.

Ka kept carrying stones, his body protesting, but his focus kept him going. He continued for at least five hours, stacking stone after stone, sweat dripping onto the dry ground.

The hours in the courtyard dragged until Maragônia’s sky darkened, the oppressive gray giving way to a black speckled with pale stars. The bell rang one last time, a low, final clang signaling the end of work. The exhausted children dropped their stones and sacks, bodies slumped from the day’s weight.

“To the dormitories, you rats! Anyone who dawdles gets a whipping!” Ka dropped his last stone, hands red, and followed the flow.

While heading back to the dormitory, Ka took a shortcut through the chapel, where Father Arture’s slow footsteps echoed in the silence.

“Ka, my child.”

The voice was soft, almost paternal. Ka looked up and saw the priest smiling, his long fingers laced over a Bible. The stigma on his palm seemed less alive—just an old scar now.

“You’ve been working hard. I notice your effort.” Arture leaned in, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The touch was light, almost too careful. “The Lord Ascended sees the sacrifice of the righteous. Perhaps you’re ready for a special task...”

Ka swallowed hard. The man’s tone was so... sincere.

“Thank you, Father Arture,” Ka murmured, lowering his head.

The priest sighed, glancing at the altar.

“This place is harsh, Ka. I know. But discipline is necessary. The world out there is cruel—here, at least, we protect you.” His dark eyes gleamed briefly. “You’ve seen what happens to children on Maragônia’s streets, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Father,” Ka lied.

Arture smiled, stroking his hair like a real father might.

“Good boy.”

As he walked away, leaving a trail of incense in the air, Ka almost—almost—felt compelled to believe him.

Back in the dormitory, Ka collapsed onto his bed, his tunic still caked with dirt, his body numb with pain. He slipped his hand into his sleeve, feeling the note from the pale girl, Bile Surström, and reread it in his mind. He pulled out the hidden bread and ate it to fill the hole in his stomach, his eye scanning the room to ensure no one watched. The other children lay down in silence. A caretaker, an old, scowling man, extinguished the lone candle, plunging the dormitory into darkness.

Ka tried to sleep, but exhaustion didn’t quell his restlessness. The orphanage seemed alive at night, with creaks in the walls and the distant echo of something scratching, like nails on a plate. He closed his eyes, heart racing, waiting for midnight. When the chapel clock struck twelve, the muffled sound piercing the walls, Ka opened his eye, alert. A closer creak made him freeze. The dormitory door opened slowly, and Father Arture’s tall silhouette appeared, his black cassock blending with the shadows. He held a lantern casting a yellowish glow, illuminating his bony face and the stigma on his palm, which seemed to pulse in the dim light, worse than before.

Arture walked among the beds, his steps silent but heavy. He stopped at a bed a few meters from Ka, where a smaller boy with messy hair slept curled up. Without a word, Arture grabbed the boy’s arms with one hand. The boy woke with a muffled whimper, eyes wide with fear. “Silence,” Arture whispered, his voice cold as the night wind. He pulled the boy, dragging him out of the dormitory, the lantern swaying as the door closed with a click.

The dormitory sank into heavy silence when Ka finally moved. Arture and the boy’s traces had vanished into the dark corridor, but the echo of terror still pulsed in the air.

Ka waited until the other boys’ breathing steadied, then slipped out of bed. His bare feet touched the cold floor as he crouched, fingers probing the cracks in the worn wooden floorboards. There was something there—something he hadn’t noticed before, when a board creaked differently under his hand’s weight.

He pressed the wood carefully until he felt a faint click. The board loosened, revealing a narrow gap beneath the floor. Dust rose as he reached into the dark space, his fingers finding something cold and smooth.

It was a dusty, yellowed envelope.

Ka pulled it into the faint moonlight streaming through the window. The paper was fragile, nearly crumbling in his hands. Carefully, he opened it, revealing a letter written in faded ink:

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“To the Watchers of the Order,

The recent events in Maragônia have become unsustainable. Two delinquent boys, no older than twelve, were responsible for stealing hosts from our church in Piagûl. Witnesses claim the young troublemakers acted as if guided by a force beyond their control—whispering in strange tongues and laughing without reason.

Royal Guard Dain captured them in the Forest of the Wailers after their escape. One, the older, was sent to the church under Father Arture’s custody. The other, the younger, was delivered to the hotel hosting General Teosbaldo I, where we hope his turbulent spirit will be tamed.

May the Holy Prophet have mercy on their souls.

Signed,

Captain Relrik, Maragônia Guard”

Ka held the letter with trembling hands.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor made his heart race. Ka hurriedly folded the letter and stuffed it back into the hiding spot, pushing the board back just before the dormitory door opened.

The obese nun peered inside, her lantern sweeping the beds. Ka pretended to sleep, but under his closed eyelids, his mind raced frantically.

Ka stayed still until she left, his heart pounding harder, anger and curiosity battling within him. He couldn’t stay there all night. He slipped from the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor, and moved silently, keeping to the corridor’s shadows, the night air sending a shiver down his spine.

Ka approached, pressing his face to the crack of a slightly open door. Inside, the lantern’s light illuminated Arture’s serene face, standing behind the boy.

....

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The boy, trembling, was sprawled face-down over the office desk, his hands tied behind him with thick rope. Arture raised his hand, the stigma pulsing, and delivered a sharp slap to the boy’s face, the sound echoing like thunder. “Your soul is weak,” Arture hissed from behind the boy, his voice dripping with contempt. “But the thorny cross will purify you.” He picked up a knife, and the boy let out a muffled sob, eyes brimming with tears.

Ka felt his blood boil, a pain searing through his head, ready to push the door and do something, anything. But before he could act, a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back with force.

It was Davi, eyes wide with urgency. “Are you crazy, newbie?” he whispered, dragging Ka down the corridor. “Want to end up like him? Come with me, now!” Ka tried to resist, but Davi was stronger, pulling him to a dark corner where a narrow staircase led to the courtyard.

They ran silently, the cold air cutting their skin, until they reached the well behind the orphanage, a moss-covered stone structure hidden by dry bushes. Davi shoved Ka against the well’s wall, eyes blazing with anger and fear. “You almost got yourself caught, you idiot!” he whispered hoarsely. “If Arture catches you, he’ll have your ass too!”

Before Ka could respond, he noticed a figure in the shadows. It was the pale girl, her sunken eyes gleaming in the dark. She was crouched against the well, trembling. “You came,” she whispered, her voice weak but relieved. “I thought you wouldn’t, Ka. I’m Bile Surström,” she introduced herself.

Ka crossed his arms, still shaken by what he’d seen. “What the hell is going on? Why the note? And what’s Arture doing?”

Bile glanced at Davi, hesitant, before speaking. “He... takes the kids at night. He uses them, and then they disappear... this place isn’t an orphanage. It’s... something else. We need to get out before he gets us too.”

Davi nodded, his expression hard. “She’s right. Arture’s not just preaching about that god. He’s doing something with the kids, something no one explains. I’ve been locked in the basement for days, Ka. There’s messed-up stuff down there! He keeps other kids locked up, there are symbols on the walls, dried blood.” He paused, eyes narrowed. “But escaping’s not easy. The walls are high, nuns watch everything, and this damn place—Maragônia’s both a state and a capital, it’s the end of the world.”

Ka felt the weight of their words, but his mind was already working, plotting. “So how do we get out?” he asked, voice firm, trying to bury the trauma. “I don’t want to stay here waiting for my turn.”

Davi exchanged a look with Bile, who wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “There’s a passage,” Davi said. “In the mill, behind loose stones. It leads outside, but I don’t know where. It’s dangerous. And we need a plan, food, something to defend ourselves.” He looked at Ka, sizing him up. “You in, newbie? If you snitch on what you saw here, I’ll snitch on you too.”

“I’m in,” Ka said, fully trusting them.

Bile gave a weak but genuine half-smile, while Davi chuckled softly. “Alright,” he said. “Now shut up and get back to the dormitory. Tomorrow we plan properly. And watch what you see, Ka!”

Ka ran through the dark corridor, trying to reach the dormitory, but the orphanage at night was another world. The shadows breathed. The saints in the portraits seemed to turn their eyes to follow him. And then—

“Ka.”

The voice came from behind him, soft as a knife’s cut.

The boy froze. His blood turned to ice before he even turned to see Father Arture standing at the corridor’s end, arms raised as if preparing for an embrace, the lantern in his left hand casting a yellowish glow that made his stigma pulse. His black cassock swallowed his lanky frame, but his eyes—those sunken eyes—burned like embers.

“What are you doing awake, child?” Arture advanced, steps slow. The lantern’s light flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Ka swallowed hard. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, but he forced the words out: “Th-thirsty, Father. Went to get water.”

Arture stopped a hand’s breadth away. The smell of fish and semen?—invaded Ka’s nostrils. The man leaned in, his face so close that Ka could see the bloodshot veins in his eyes.

“Water?” Arture smiled, his teeth visible under thin lips. “The well’s out back, child. And you were coming from the wrong direction.”

Arture’s free hand rose, his long fingers touching Ka’s chin, forcing him to look up. The stigma on his palm seemed to writhe, like worms under the skin, and his cassock, seen up close, was stained with blood.

“Lying is a sin, Ka. And sinners... well.” His thumb slid down the boy’s neck, chilling his skin. “They need purification.”

Ka felt his heart pound so hard Arture could probably hear it. Instinct screamed to run, but his feet were rooted. Arture sniffed his hair, a sigh almost... predatory.

“Go back to bed, child. I’ll be watching you. Always.”

His hand tightened on Ka’s shoulder, trying to slide behind him—

Ka didn’t wait. He turned and walked quickly, *“Don’t run, don’t run,”* he thought, until he reached the dormitory. Only when the door closed behind him did he stop thinking.

In bed, pretending to sleep, Ka clenched his fists under the blanket.

Weeks dragged like a river of mud in Maragônia. The gray sky never cleared, the sun just a pale smudge behind eternal fog. Ka woke with the bell, marched to the chapel, swallowed watery gruel in the dining hall, then headed to the courtyard—always the courtyard, always the stones.

At first, each block he lifted was agony. His muscles burned, hands ended red, and sweat mixed with the ground’s dust. The nuns watched, clubs ready for anyone who faltered. But the boy never faltered, his determination unwavering.

Day after day, he pushed his limits. The stones that once made his arms tremble became easier to lift over time. His shoulders grew defined under the worn tunic. Even the scars on his palms turned into thick calluses, indifferent to the sharp edges.

“Faster, you lazy brat!” The man in the stained apron spat near his feet, but Ka didn’t care anymore.

He’d learned the lesson: in the orphanage, weakness was an invitation to meet the Father personally.

In rare moments of rest, Ka, Davi, and Bile met in hidden corners—behind the mill, in the gap under the stairs, among sacks of rotten grain in the storage room.

“The east wall’s the lowest,” Davi said once, “but there’s a dog. A black beast the nuns let loose every night.”

“Fuck... this place feels more like a prison than an orphanage,” Ka replied.

“Figured that out now?” Davi shot back.

Bile, always curled up in a corner, thin arms wrapped around her knees, rocked in place. “They found a kid’s foot in the bathroom once. Guess they forgot to hide it...”

In the following weeks, the three began stealing scraps from the dining hall, hiding them for future supplies. Chicken bones, moldy bread—anything remotely edible.

Meanwhile, Bile watched the nuns’ schedules, noting when the courtyard was least guarded. Davi, in turn, sketched mental maps of promising spots in the orphanage.

“We need a stormy night,” Ka murmured, looking at the sky. “The noise could cover our steps...”

Maragônia, however, was a desert region in the imperial backlands, so it rarely rained, maybe once a year.

On the eve of their plan, Ka was woken by muffled moans and grunts. Father Arture was in the dormitory again, this time over a girl with undone braids. He was using her right there, the bed shaking relentlessly, keeping Ka awake until morning.

Maragônia’s sky weighed like lead, the oppressive gray swallowing any hope of light. It was late afternoon, and the orphanage courtyard was nearly empty, hopeless, except for a few children finishing stacking stones under the watchful eye of a nun dozing in a corner. Ka, now stronger after a month of forced labor, carried a stone block when he heard a shrill scream from the courtyard’s east corner, near the low wall where Davi said the dog patrolled at night.

He dropped the stone, the sound muffled against the dry earth, and ran toward the scream. There, crouched against the wall, was a smaller girl with undone braids, the same one Ka had seen being abused by Father Arture weeks ago. She trembled, eyes wide with terror, as a mangy black dog with bared fangs and bloodshot eyes advanced slowly, growling. Foam dripped from its mouth, and its ribs showed through patchy fur, suggesting hunger and disease.

Ka didn’t think twice. His eye scanned the ground, spotting a rusty iron bar half-buried in the dirt, likely leftover from some old orphanage construction. He yanked it free, feeling the rough, cold metal in his palm, its weight familiar like the stones he carried daily, but there was something alive in the rage growing in his chest—the same fury that drove him to crush the headless wolf in the forest, the same anger he’d bottled up all this time, now ready to unleash.

“Hey, black mutt!” Ka shouted, stepping between the girl and the dog. The animal turned its head, wild eyes fixed on him, and let out a guttural bark that vibrated the air. The girl crawled back, sobbing, as Ka gripped the bar with both hands, muscles tense.

The dog lunged, claws scraping the dry ground, and Ka swung the bar with all his strength, hitting the animal’s head. The impact made the dog yelp, but it didn’t retreat; instead, it leaped, fangs aiming for Ka’s arm. He dodged narrowly, feeling the beast’s hot breath graze his face, and struck again, this time aiming for the head again. The bar hit with a dry crack, and the dog staggered, still trying to attack, its head caved and deformed.

Ka hit it again, and again, and again, the rusty metal staining with blood and saliva. The dog finally stopped moving, its body limp on the ground, head a mangled mess, foam still bubbling from what remained of its mouth. Ka stood panting, the bar dripping blood, heart racing, his rage spent. The girl ran behind a pile of planks, still crying but alive.

The other children in the courtyard, who’d stopped to watch, murmured among themselves, eyes wide. The dozing nun finally approached, club swaying, but before she could speak, a voice cut through the silence. It was a thin boy with makeshift glasses, one Ka had seen in class, always quiet, reading stacks of books and handling the orphanage’s documents, spared because he managed their records.

“You’re crazy, kid!” the boy said, voice trembling but with a hint of admiration. “That bar’s all rusted. If that dog had bitten you, you’d die of tetanus anyway. Killing it was the only way to make sure it didn’t get you.”

Ka looked at the bar in his hands, the corroded iron glinting in the dim evening light. He didn’t know exactly what tetanus was, but the word stuck in his head, heavy as the metal he held. The glasses boy continued, pointing at the dead dog: “Tetanus is a hell of a disease. Gets in through a wound, makes you stiff as stone, and you die screaming. You faced death, man. You’re Tetanus now.”

The other children repeated the word, first in whispers, then louder, like a chant. “Tetanus. Tetanus.” Even the braided girl, still trembling, looked at Ka with a mix of gratitude and fear, murmuring, “Thank you... Tetanus.”

The nun, face twisted with anger, shouted, “Silence, you worms! Back to work!” But no one moved immediately. The name had stuck to Ka, like the dog’s blood on his tunic, like the dried blood on the iron bar. He dropped the metal to the ground, the weight of the scene still pulsing in his veins, and returned to the stones, feeling the children’s eyes follow him.

That night in the dormitory, Davi approached Ka’s bed, a half-smile on his face. “Tetanus, huh?” he said softly. “Not a bad name for someone who just killed the orphanage’s black devourer. But you’d better take care of those wounds later, you know... might have that rust in your blood... at least that’s what the smart kid said.”

Midnight fell over São Dantas Orphanage. The boy, now called Tetanus by everyone as the name spread through every corner of the orphanage, lay in his bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. His hands, still sore, burned where the rusty iron bar had cut his skin. Small scratches, almost insignificant, but the word “tetanus” echoed in his mind like the chapel bell. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but the glasses boy’s words—“makes you stiff as stone, and you die screaming”—weighed on him.

He touched the cuts on his palms, feeling slight swelling and warmth spreading. Panic grew silently. He couldn’t stay there, waiting for the disease to consume him. He had to do something. Already accustomed, he slipped from the bed and crept to a corner of the dormitory where he kept stolen supplies hidden: a dirty cloth, a piece of moldy bread, and a bottle of water taken from the dining hall.

In the dark, he recalled something Bile had mentioned days earlier while planning their escape. She’d spoken of a cabinet in the back corridor where the nuns stored medical supplies—or what passed for them in the orphanage: dirty bandages, bottles of rancid alcohol, and some wilted herbs. It was risky, but the boy saw no other option; he needed to clean the cuts, or at least try.

Leaving the dormitory, he made his way to the back corridor, where a crooked wooden door led to the cabinet. The lock was broken, as Bile had said, and he opened it carefully, the smell of old chemicals invading his nostrils.

In the faint moonlight through a window crack, he rummaged through the cabinet. He found a glass bottle with yellowish liquid smelling of alcohol, some grimy bandages, and a jar of dried herbs that looked more like dust than medicine. Unsure what to do, he poured the liquid on his cuts, the sting making him clench his teeth to stifle a groan. He scrubbed his hands hard, trying to clean any trace of rust or dirt, and wrapped his palms with the bandages, tying them tightly until the pain pulsed like a drum.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps made him freeze. He hid behind a stack of boxes in the cabinet, holding his breath. The obese nun passed the corridor, lantern swaying, eyes half-closed with sleep. She paused for a moment, as if sensing something amiss, but muttered something incoherent and moved on. The boy waited until the footsteps faded before leaving the hiding spot, heart still racing.

Back in the dormitory, he lay down, but restlessness kept him awake. His hands throbbed, and he imagined the disease creeping through his blood, stiffening his muscles, fulfilling the glasses boy’s prophecy. He tried to recall what he knew about survival—things learned in the forest before the orphanage. There, open wounds were washed with clean water, sometimes with bitter herbs his mother used. But in the orphanage, there was no clean water, and the cabinet’s herbs seemed useless.

The next morning, Tetanus woke with the bell, body feverish but not paralyzed as he’d feared. He hid the bandages under his tunic’s sleeves and headed to the courtyard, determined not to show weakness. During work, he felt the heat in his cuts slowly fade, as if the rancid alcohol had, by some miracle, worked. Or perhaps it was his own stubbornness, his refusal to succumb to the disease, that kept him standing. He carried stones as always, ignoring the pain, eyes fixed on the horizon, where the east wall promised escape.

The black dog’s corpse from the day before still lay in a corner, proof the orphanage cared as little for its animals as its children.

At lunch, Bile approached slowly, avoiding attention, her sunken eyes full of concern. “Hey... Tetanus, your hands... are they okay?” she whispered as they shared a piece of hard bread.

He showed the bandages, now dirty with earth, and shrugged. “Did what I could. Not stiff as stone yet, so I guess I’ll live.”

Davi, nearby, chuckled softly. “You’re stubborn as hell, kid. If tetanus doesn’t kill you, this orphanage won’t either.” He paused, eyes serious. “But take care of those hands. If they get infected, no stinking alcohol’s gonna save you.”