Today is my thirteenth birthday.

  I feel like shit. A great heap of human excrement shaped like a boy. And why? Because I’ve achieved nothing. I am only good for one thing. And that thing is…

  Chiiiiiiiiiii.

  I brought the axe down on the nobleman. He was disguised as a beggar, draped in rags that stank of pig piss and rancid fear. The blade bit into his neck but didn’t part it clean. It snagged halfway, wedged between splintered vertebrae and spinal fibers that shredded like rotted rope. A sea of arterial blood erupted in hot sprays, painting my face, stinging my eyes, and dripping from my chin. The stench of iron and bowels mingled with the dust of the scaffold.

  Beautiful.

  But I couldn’t stand there admiring my work. If I didn’t finish the cut with the next swing, it would be my own head rolling across these gore-stained boards. The High Executioner watched me from the shadows, his smile a silent promise: Do it right, or die, brat.

  I raised the axe again. it felt heavy as the sins of everyone watching. Sweat stung my forehead, mixing with the blood of a stranger. With a guttural growl that tore from my young throat, I hoisted the steel toward the crimson sky—those twin cursed moons staring down as if they knew exactly what I was—and slammed it down with every ounce of my thirteen-year-old rage.

  This time, it was clean. A dry crunch of bone, a wet snap of tendons, and the head broke free. It thudded and rolled, leaving a viscous trail of blood and cerebral meconium that slithered across the wood like a red serpent.

  I lowered the axe carefully—not out of respect, but because the handle was slick with fluids. I set it aside.

  I walked slowly toward the head as it twitched on the floor. The dead man’s eyes were blown wide, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.

  Hideous.

  Without a second thought, I brought my filthy boot down on it, stopping its useless roll. The skull creaked under my weight—a sound that made me smile inside.

  I reached down and grabbed the blood-soaked blonde hair. I hoisted the trophy high for the horrified crowd to see. The head dangled from my small fist, blood running down my arm, hot droplets splashing onto my bare feet.

  Auri di Astrea. What a beautiful name…

  I couldn’t help but lick my parched lips, tasting the salt of his blood mixed with my own sweat. A name… I don’t have one. I tilted my head to look directly at the decapitated corpse.

  You have one… but you aren’t using it anymore.

  “Fine,” I whispered, with a smile that wasn’t a child’s, but something far worse. “From today, your name is mine.”

  I am no longer the nameless.

  I am Auri di Astrea, the Executioner of Wester.

  As the crowd hissed with horror and the High Executioner gave a cold nod of approval, I thought to myself:

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  HAHAHA.

  Thirteen years old, and I’m already stealing names from the dead. What a pathetic way to celebrate a birthday.

  ***

  Work finished, I bolted for the exit. I shed the heavy black vestments—they were massive on me, making me look like a dwarf drowning in a sack of blood-stained wool. I handed the gear to the High Executioner. He stared at me with those judging eyes. I met his gaze for a fleeting second before bowing my head.

  “Thank you, Master. I have business to attend to…” I muttered, already moving my thin, malnourished legs toward the small plaza.

  I stopped at the communal wash-station. The water was black and turbid, carrying the same metallic, rotted stench that clung to my skin. You get used to it. As long as you don’t drink it, it’s fine. I scrubbed my face, arms, and neck with the cold, filthy water. The cheap soap barely lathered; it just dragged the stranger’s blood away in pink threads. Once I felt “presentable,” I ran.

  I let out a sigh of relief when I arrived. It hadn’t started yet.

  “Look, the Nameless is here. HAHAHA.”

  A group of boys approached, moving fast. At the front was Dylan, their leader—taller than me, wearing that look of effortless superiority. Behind him, his pack of loyal idiots. I knew exactly what was coming.

  I lowered my head and whispered, “Sorry, Dylan… I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… I wanted to see the puppet show.”

  PLAP.

  My mind reeled. My head snapped to the side. A hot, thick liquid covered my right eye. I touched it instinctively.

  Blood. Ow.

  They had gathered stones when I wasn’t looking. They pelted me without mercy. One after another, striking my chest, my arms, my legs. Every hit burned like fire. My skin bloomed purple in real-time, swelling, throbbing.

  The first one had been the worst. Dylan, the hunter’s son, had a steady hand. The stone caught me right above the right eye. My vision blurred; the swelling began to force the eyelid shut. Everything on that side turned a dark, bruised red.

  PLAP. I hit the ground.

  “Damned orphan. People like you only exist for our amusement.”

  “Yeah, filthy stray. Get lost or we’ll kill you.”

  “Get lost. Get lost. Get lost…” The chorus repeated, growing louder, a cruel echo filling my ears.

  I just wanted to see the show… was that so wrong? Because I’m an orphan, do I have no right to laugh? Because I’m poor, do I have no right to live?

  I pushed myself up with a trembling hand, the other clutching my wounded eye. I glared at them with pure, unadulterated hate through my good eye. Then I turned and walked toward the exit, every step a mountain.

  “Hey!” Dylan shouted at my back. “I heard you’re the executioner’s apprentice. What’s it feel like to kill another human? Or do you… feel nothing at all?”

  The mockery in his voice was vile.

  “Murderer. HAHA.” “From now on, you’re the Orphan Assassin. The world’s biggest, poorest idiot.”

  I kept my head down. I was used to it, but today had been too much. Usually, it was a few shoves and insults. Today, they’d crossed a line.

  I slipped into a dark corner, ensuring they weren’t following. The puppet stage was a makeshift affair, like a campfire for stories. Every week, the artists put on a free show for the children. It was one of the few things I truly loved. It gave me a flicker of happiness that didn’t involve severed heads or the smell of bile.

  I hid where I could see without being seen. The other children took their seats on the dirt. Then, the artists arrived: just two of them.

  The man looked to be about twenty-five—trimmed beard, average build. Nothing special. But the girl… she was maybe eighteen, with long, sun-kissed legs. She wasn’t the most curvaceous thing in the world, but she had a natural grace that, to a boy my age, made her look like Aphrodite made flesh.

  They greeted the “audience” with warm smiles and disappeared behind the stage structure. A puppet with a goofy face emerged. The girl began the play, her voice melodic and bright.

  “This story goes back to the years when humans lived in peace… a time without magic, without monsters, without the things that prowl in the night. A time when we could walk after sunset without fear. An era known as The Sun-Drenched Years .”

  The girl’s voice rose, sweet and melodic, singing of a world without monsters.

  I listened from the shadows, one eye swollen shut, blood drying in rust-colored streaks on my cheek.

  HAHAHA.

  A world without monsters?

  Too late for that.

  They’re already here.

  Author’s Note