The rabbit lay lifeless on the forest floor, its breath stolen by the cruel noose coiled tightly around its neck. The rope had bit deep into its fur; its eyes were red and bulging, its body cold and still. Claw marks had excavated desperate grooves into the dirt around the surprise grave. It was the ending scene of a struggle finished without salvation.

  The young girl ignored the macabre scene, which had long since turned rote for her, and worked to loosen the deadly snare with her small hands. She worked with practiced efficiency, her hands deft and sure with an ease born of experience. It didn't take too long for her to eventually unbound the rabbit and reset the trap, ready for its next execution.

  She picked the rabbit up by its hind legs, studying the lifeless body with clinical detachment. It was said that to spare a rabbit was to have good luck all day, it was a shame then that luck tasted so good.

  She was quite satisfied with her catch. It was a plump young rabbit. The young ones always had the best taste. They were sweeter, less gamey, and most importantly, they didn't smell as much. She wiped a streak of drool from her chin.

  Should she feel bad for this creature? Was this apathy irregular for an eight-year-old girl? She thought back to Ritzy back at the orphanage. Ritzy was one of the lucky ones who had the luxury of arriving at the tragic care home with at least a few personal belongings. Her most prized possession was this raggedy stuffed bunny she carried around with her everywhere. That's probably where Ritzy's got all her luck from. A rabbit commodified and eternal, mechanized luck: how partisan.

  Ritzy would never have been able to work the rabbit traps. She'd freak at the sight of a dead animal, let alone retrieving a rabbit from the trap. The image of the dainty girl even trying made her smirk faintly, though it vanished as quickly as it came.

  The girl was nothing like Ritzy. For one, she didn't have a stuffed bunny—or any personal belongings, for that matter. And when she looked at the adorable creature dangling from her fingers, she didn't see a symbol of luck or innocence. She saw a meal trapped behind a dastardly prison of fur, plain and simple. Cute? Perhaps. But cuteness didn't make it any less delicious.

  In her mind, it was already chopped, cooked, and simmering in a pot. Ritzy may not have approved, but what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her—though it might fill her belly. The girl's lips curled faintly. Higher ethical standards didn't mean Ritzy was any less desperate for food than the rest of the orphans.

  The girl finished her rounds with four plump rabbits tied in a bundle—a fine haul if she did say so herself. Still, she knew it wouldn't be enough to satisfy the house mother. It was never enough to satisfy the house mother. The girl didn't have to worry too much about that though, since the house mother seemed to have taken an undeserved liking to her recently.

  She would always get the most nutritious portion at mealtime and hardly ever got any beatings of late: she wasn't used to such luxury. Perhaps after so long with Ritzy, some of that luck was rubbing off onto her as well. Doubtful.

  The girl emerged from the shadowy forest and stepped into the small, withering village she reluctantly called home. It was a typical rural settlement of Aegis filled with the homeless, the drunk, the orphaned, or sometimes all three in one. The air carried a faint bitterness, the kind that came from too much desperation and too little hope.

  Now and then, the town even hosted the local bandits, who swaggered in to claim their share of what little the struggling farms could yield. No one dared to protest; survival here meant knowing when to stay silent.

  As soon as the girl set foot on the main street, she felt their eyes on her—hungry, desperate, and unblinking. Well, she didn't really think the eyes were on her, but rather on her back where those four rabbits dribbled about with the sway of her steps.

  She knew better than to linger. Standing still was as good as asking for trouble. Tightening her grip on her bundle of rabbits, she quickened her pace, weaving through the crumbling streets with purpose. The orphanage wasn't far, but it felt like miles away under the weight of those hungry gazes.

  The adults mostly kept their distance, content to watch with hollow eyes, muttering among themselves in debate. They rarely acted, except during the leanest harvests when desperation made thieves of everyone. For now, with the fields yielding at least some meagre growth, a fragile respect for the sanctity of youth held them at bay.

  The village children, however, felt no such restraint. They had no qualms about darting forward to harass her, laughing and jeering. One of the children, particularly big and brave and acting as the troupe's leader, called out to her, his voice carrying a mocking lilt, "Hey Waif, what you got there?"

  Waif didn't flinch. She kept marching, her eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the group of children closing in and circling her like a pack of wolves. She'd learned long ago that words were only bait. Her pace never faltered; she just marched forward, her silence sharper than any retort.

  One of the children darted forward, quick as a rat, and tugged at the rabbits slung over Waif's shoulder. They recoiled instantly when sticky, congealed blood smeared onto their fingers.

  "Eww, gross! She's holding dead animals!" the child shrieked, shaking their hand as if the stain could somehow infect them.

  The others laughed nervously, their jeers hollow, as they drifted into a loose orbit around Waif, careful to stay just out of reach. Not because they feared her striking back, but to them, she was dirty, tainted in ways they couldn't articulate but instinctively avoided, somehow even lower on the hierarchy of paupers.

  One voice piped up, smug and cruel. "She probably killed them because she was jealous they had families."

  Another chimed in, their words carrying a theatrical shiver of mock fear. "Are we next?"

  Waif spun on her heels, her mouth already open to unleash a volley of screeched slurs. But she froze when she saw their reaction.

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  The children flinched back instinctively, then erupted into a hushed chorus of giggles, their laughter sharp and mocking.

  She clenched her fists, trembling with the effort to hold herself back. There was no point. She knew better. Nothing she could say or do would make them stop—it would only feed their glee. Swallowing her frustration, she turned back and resumed her march to the orphanage, her steps stiff with suppressed anger.

  The children followed at a distance, their delighted taunts trailing her like gnats. Waif bit her lip hard, trying to steady herself, but her vision blurred as tears threatened to spill. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't cry. Not in front of them. She couldn't give them the satisfaction.

  But despite her best efforts, her eyes puffed, and her vision blurred.

  "Hey, look, guys!" one of the kids called, their voice gleeful and triumphant. "Waif is crying!"

  Waif's face flushed with heat, and her steps grew heavier, each one dragging her closer to the edge. The tears hadn't fallen yet, but the threat of them was like blood in the water, drawing the children in.

  One of the children taunted, their voice dripping with amusement. "Why don't you go pray to your god for help, Waif?"

  Before she could even respond, another chimed in, eager to join the cruelty. "She can't, 'cause her god is dead!"

  The words struck harder than any fist, and the children burst into laughter, their voices shrill and merciless. They doubled over, clutching their sides as they revelled in the sight of her humiliation. Waif's pace quickened, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she tried to distance herself from the jeering voices.

  But even as her legs carried her forward, the tears broke free, spilling down her cheeks in silent surrender. The children's laughter faded into the background as she forced herself to keep walking, head down, shoulders tight, determined to leave their cruelty behind her—if only for a little while.

  She soon reached the orphanage—a small, nearly dilapidated Devadootian church, its stone walls crumbling in places, the roof sagging with age. Despite its wear, the building was surprisingly large compared to the other hovels of the hamlet. In another time, long ago, it might have been impressive. But today, the empty silence that greeted her, the absence of any visitors despite it being church day, shattered any illusion of grandeur. The place felt less like a sanctuary and more like a forgotten relic, a hollow echo of something once meaningful.

  As soon as Waif crossed the threshold of the orphanage's fenced confines, her thoughts didn't turn to delivering the rabbits. Instead, her feet carried her to the main entrance. On church day the grand double doors were always left ajar regardless of weather. Inside housed the church sanctuary, a grand hall, rows of pews on either side leading down to an altar watched over by hanging statues of the devadootian pantheon. The hanging ornamentation like hundreds of wings reaching down from the heavens to bless them, each stone carved feather seemingly more alive than the birds outside. Despite how dire the church became, this room alone would never suffer for it. The sole unblemished respite in an otherwise crumbling building.

  Waif's gaze drew down the sanctuary hall to the front pews. It was only her infallible deference which kept her pace measured. She reached the front of the hall stepped into the front row and knelt, her small body trembling.

  She wasn't alone in the sanctuary. Other children and caretakers filled the room, each absorbed in their own prayers, seeking small mercies or minor salvations. But Waif paid them no mind. When she prayed, she felt as though the world around her vanished. She felt like she was the sole human in an empty universe. It was only her and the devadoots.

  She clasped her hands tightly, squeezing them until her palms turned raw, redder than her puffy eyes. Her knuckles ached from the pressure, but she didn't release them. She needed to hold on. She needed to believe. Her gaze drifted to the dangling statues above, to those innumerable wings reaching toward her: and she prayed.

  She prayed with every ounce of her being, hoping—no, begging—that the devadoots would return. That they would descend from their heavenly heights and reclaim their honour. She longed for the devadoots to show the world that they really were gods and deserved veneration; she needed them to justify her faith, her sacrifices.

  When Waif finally unclasped her hands and opened her eyes, she found a caregiver standing before her. It was one of the good ones; their presence was unexpected but not unwelcome. The woman's gaze softened as she noticed that Waif had finished praying. She knelt down in front of her, meeting her eye to eye, a solemn expression of concern etched on her face.

  "Is everything all right, Waif?" she asked, her voice quiet, as though afraid to disturb the fragile space Waif had created for herself.

  Waif wiped the tears from her face, her hand shaking as she sniffed and sucked in a few ragged breaths, trying to steady herself. It wasn't enough. The weight of her emotions pressed down on her chest, but she forced the words out, her voice hoarse with the effort.

  "Why does everyone hate us?" she asked, her voice trembling. "It's not fair... Why couldn't the White Witch kill the non-believers instead?"

  Waif knew she was being selfish, rash even, but the frustration boiled over and she couldn't contain it—no matter the consequences, even if it meant being struck for mentioning the White Witch's name.

  For a brief, tense moment, the caregiver's face darkened, her expression sharpening with the warning of a strike for Waif's sacrilege. But just as quickly, the anger melted away, replaced by something softer—something closer to pity.

  "Waif," the caregiver began, her voice low and steady, "you know better than to utter that vile creature's name, especially in the hopes of fulfilling a wish. Would you cast aside the devadoots for someone like her?"

  Waif's heart sank, and she lowered her gaze in shame. "No, ma'am," she replied, her voice solemn and regretful. "It just feels so unfair."

  The caregiver gently pulled Waif into a warm, comforting hug. "I know, honey," she said softly, her voice a balm to Waif's frayed emotions. "But those children... they're corrupted. You aren't like them. As a worshipper of the devadoots, it's important for you to rise above it. You have to be better, Waif. Especially you. You're a representative of our cause, a role model for everyone here."

  Waif's heart fluttered with uncertainty, her surprise evident as she pulled back just enough to look the caregiver in the eyes. "I am?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, unsure she'd heard correctly.

  "Yes, Waif, you are," the caregiver continued, her voice cheerful, "So, you must always be on your best behaviour. Be a good girl, all right?"

  Waif responded with an uncertain nod. Best behaviour had never been a quality that had been associated with her before.

  "Good," the caregiver smiled, a soft gleam of approval in her eyes as she reached out and pinched Waif's cheek. "Now, I see you managed to catch a lot of food for us today. See—" she gestured to the rabbits with pride. "Another example of how you're like a big sister to many of the people here. Why don't you take those to the kitchen? We'll have a feast tonight!"

  The thought of actual meat for supper, warm and filling, instantly pushed away any lingering darkness. Waif felt bad admitting it, but she was also excited that thanks to the strange prestigious treatment she was receiving of late, she would almost certainly be given a larger portion of meat than anyone else.

  She replied, her voice a little more steady as a spark of excitement started to replace melancholy. "Yes, ma'am,"

  Waif stood up and began to make her way toward the exit of the sanctuary, but just as her hand touched the door, the caregiver called out to her.

  "Oh, and Waif, when you're finished with that, the house mother would like to speak with you."

  Waif froze. A chill ran down her spine, and her stomach tightened in dread. The house mother never called for anyone unless it was for something unpleasant.