The next morning, Armyr entered the dining room. Nine puppets stood there, frozen in grotesque postures. The farmer was at the center, surrounded by three men, two women, and three children. Their bodies, stiff and disjointed, seemed suspended between life and death.

  Their black, vacant eyes stared at an indistinct point in space, but a faint tremor occasionally flickered through their eyelids—a slight spasm that betrayed a lingering tension. Their skin was stretched and pale, almost translucent under the cold morning light.

  Armyr approached, his gaze sliding over their frozen features. He tilted his head slightly, observing a child whose hand trembled faintly.

  — "Good work, farmer. You’ve earned yourself a beer," he said.

  The farmer grabbed a bottle of beer from the table. But as he brought the neck to his lips, the liquid poured out in a continuous stream down his chin, drenching his torso and pooling on the floor.

  Armyr burst into laughter.

  — "Even that, you can’t enjoy anymore, can you?"

  A murmur floated through the air. It was like a breath, a jumble of indistinct words emanating from the puppets themselves. Armyr narrowed his eyes, focusing on one of the men whose lips trembled slightly, as though he was trying to speak. But no coherent words escaped his mouth.

  — "Now, go get wood. Carve it into stakes. I want a proper arsenal," Armyr declared.

  The puppets began to move. Their gestures remained jerky, almost spasmodic, their limbs shifting in abrupt, irregular motions. One of the children stumbled, his leg bending at an impossible angle, but he immediately straightened up, his fixed expression betraying no pain.

  An hour later, they returned, carrying dozens of freshly carved stakes. Their march was silent, but their feet occasionally struck the ground with incongruous force, producing a dull thud. Armyr drew a cut across his wrist to soak the stakes with his blood.

  The dark liquid slid over the wood, absorbed as if by a sponge. Armyr ran his fingertips over them, a smile on his lips.

  — "Tonight, you will attack the neighboring farms. Drive these stakes into their hearts. Every heartbeat must cease. Until then, keep cutting wood. We will need more stakes."

  The puppets scattered outside, their misshapen silhouettes slicing through the forest. The sound of breaking trunks and flying splinters echoed in the stillness of the morning. Armyr, his hands clasped behind his back, watched them in silence. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had planned.

  *****

  Upon arriving in the city, Armyr took in its bustling energy. Twilight had given way to a gentle darkness. The air was saturated with the aromas of grilled meat, spiced soups, and freshly baked bread from street ovens, mingled with the sharper scent of still-smoldering embers.

  Children’s laughter as they played around the stalls blended with the lively conversations of merchants and customers.

  Improvised stalls lined up under colorful awnings, overflowing with fruits, fabrics, and trinkets. The cheerful tumult of haggling and vendors’ calls provided a striking contrast to the serene shadows of the stone facades sleeping quietly behind them. Armyr moved through the crowd, his eyes scanning faces and gestures. Every detail intrigued him.

  His wandering eventually led him to an inn. Its stone walls, draped in ivy and adorned with climbing flowers, stood out under the glow of lanterns hanging by the entrance. Armyr pushed the door open, and a mix of warmth and calm immediately enveloped him. Inside, the air was filled with the scent of a crackling fire and a spiced stew simmering somewhere in the background.

  Making his way to the reception desk, he exchanged a few glances with weary travelers seated at small wooden tables.

  — "A room," he requested.

  After a brief exchange, he climbed the stairs. The wooden steps creaked under his weight. Once inside his room, Armyr took in the surroundings. The walls were adorned with modest engravings. But it was the bed—with its soft mattress and clean sheets—that captured his attention. As he lay down, he felt his tense muscles begin to relax.

  A few hours later, after a restorative sleep, Armyr descended to the ground floor. Behind the counter stood a woman in her thirties, her face lit up by a warm smile.

  — "What are the specialties of the capital?" he asked.

  The woman answered enthusiastically:

  — "You’re a tourist, I suppose?"

  — "Yes, in a way," Armyr replied.

  The innkeeper’s smile widened, a glimmer of pride in her eyes.

  — "Oh, there’s so much to discover here. How long are you planning to stay with us?"

  — "A few weeks," he answered.

  — "Then you must try the royal palace’s chocolate!" she declared with excitement. "It’s an expensive luxury, but unforgettable. There are also the Hurna chasms and our famous cuberdons, a local treat."

  — "Cuberdons? What are those?" Armyr asked.

  — "Oh, they’re triangular sweets made of sugar, filled with a sweet syrup inside," the woman explained, her face lighting up with an almost childlike enthusiasm. "A true delight, believe me! You can’t leave the capital without tasting one."

  A smile stretched across Armyr’s lips, and he gently licked them.

  — "Near the castle," she continued, "there’s a grand gallery where the best artisans of the capital and the world exhibit their creations. If you enjoy art and discoveries, it’s a place not to be missed."

  He inclined his head.

  — "Thank you for your recommendations," he said before leaving the inn.

  Outside, the city was brimming with life.

  Armyr allowed himself to be swept up by the bustling energy, wandering through the alleys. His eyes scanned the crowd, capturing every detail—the hands exchanging coins, the smiles slipping into conversations, the gestures of a child pointing at a colorful treat.

  He stopped in front of a stand where large golden waffles, drizzled with melted chocolate, gleamed under the light. The sweet aroma evoked in him a fleeting, blurry memory of a time when such pleasures were accessible. He chose one, paid, and bit into the simple yet comforting treat. The warmth of the chocolate and the crispness of the waffle brought him an unexpected moment of satisfaction.

  Heading toward a park illuminated by lanterns, he found a secluded bench and sat down. Around him, groups of people were chatting and laughing. For a moment, Armyr observed the lively scene as though he were a spectator watching a theatrical performance.

  As he finished his waffle, a woman in her thirties appeared in his field of vision. Visibly cheerful and tipsy, she approached with energy. Her crystalline laughter echoed in the air like carefree music.

  — "Do you want to drink with us?" she asked, her eyes sparkling.

  Her disheveled hair, cheeks flushed from alcohol, and disarming smile formed a fascinating picture. A strange curiosity rose within him, tinged with a hint of amusement. A bright, almost charming smile appeared on his face.

  — "With pleasure," he replied, standing up.

  She led him to a group of about ten people sitting in a circle on the grass, surrounded by bottles and scattered mugs. The air was thick with the sweet scent of alcohol and the lively voices rising above their laughter. Someone handed him a glass of banana-flavored liquor, which he accepted with a polite smile. He brought it to his lips.

  The conversations, songs, and jokes created a carefree symphony in which Armyr blended with surprising ease. He laughed heartily, shared fictitious anecdotes, and exchanged knowing glances. Yet behind every smile, every burst of laughter, a cold detachment lingered. He was merely an actor in this masquerade.

  When the intoxication began to creep into his mind, he seized a moment of distraction to slip away discreetly. His steps led him to a vendor selling skewered meat, whose smoking grill released an irresistible spicy aroma. He bought six skewers and devoured them with an almost animalistic intensity, savoring each bite as a raw offering to a voracious hunger.

  Satisfied, slightly dizzy from the alcohol, he returned to the inn. His steps wavered slightly, and a satisfied smile floated on his lips.

  *****

  Armyr spent the day wandering through the vibrant maze of the capital’s streets. The shops stretched out in a dazzling explosion of colors and captivating scents. The stalls overflowed with ripe fruits, pastries, and handcrafted goods, each detail catching his attention. He strolled aimlessly, stopping here to sample a cheese, there to try a local dessert with a delicate sweetness. These rich and varied flavors rekindled forgotten fragments of a humanity he had long since abandoned. Yet, despite their brilliance, everything felt strangely hollow, like a shadow of an inaccessible past.

  When night fell, he returned to the farm. Upon his arrival, a hundred puppets were bustling about in the courtyard.

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  Crossing the threshold of the house, Armyr stepped into the kitchen, where the full extent of their work was revealed. Hundreds of meticulously carved and stacked stakes filled the room. The air was thick with the acrid scent of freshly cut wood, a heavy aroma that clung to the walls and seemed to seep into his skin. A grimace of satisfaction appeared on his lips.

  Their efficiency exceeded his expectations, and a shiver of triumph ran down his spine.

  Exhausted from his day of wandering and aware of the monumental tasks ahead, Armyr withdrew to his room. But despite the promise of rest, his sleep was restless, troubled by fragments of dreams he couldn’t quite grasp. When he awoke at dawn, a persistent fatigue weighed on his shoulders—a weariness that seemed to emanate from his very bones.

  Forcing himself to rise, he began tackling an essential and grueling task: soaking dozens of stakes in his blood.

  Each cut traced across his wrist released a stream of vibrant, thick, crimson liquid that ran down the rough stakes. The blood seemed to hesitate for a moment before seeping into the wood's fibers. The stakes darkened, taking on an almost charcoal hue.

  Each drop, as it fell, shattered the silence of the room.

  The effort was exhausting. Every cut drained more life from his body, his arms growing heavy, his movements slower. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, sliding down his temples to mix with the blood that stained his hands. Yet Armyr did not falter. His movements remained methodical, relentless. The pain was there—burning and deep—but he ignored it with icy determination.

  The stakes, now transformed, were no longer mere pieces of wood. Their surfaces seemed to pulse faintly.

  He placed the final stake onto the already imposing pile before him and straightened. Armyr clenched his fists, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his shoulders, but a cold flame burned in his eyes.

  — "Prepare me something to eat," he ordered.

  The puppets moved into action, their mechanical footsteps echoing on the wooden floor in a steady, monotonous rhythm. Three hours later, they returned, presenting before him a veritable feast. The massive table was laden with an abundance of meticulously arranged dishes: roasted meats, grilled vegetables with a smoky aroma, and still-warm loaves of bread.

  Armyr sat down. But as he brought the first bites to his lips, he felt a dull frustration rising within him, insidious like a creeping shadow.

  Every flavor was bland to him. The juicy, expertly seasoned cuts of meat held no particular allure. The tender, fragrant vegetables lacked the depth he sought. Even the warm, soft bread brought only fleeting satisfaction. As he ate, the void within him stretched wider, unrelenting. Something was missing.

  His jaw tightened. He set down his fork. Tilting his head, he let his gaze sweep over the puppets standing in the shadows, frozen like statues.

  — "It will never be enough," he murmured.

  Exhausted, Armyr retreated to the austere comfort of his room, allowing his body to shed the accumulated fatigue. He spent several days resting, surrounded by a silence broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the puppets tending to his every need. They brought his meals directly to his bed. This ceaseless ballet marked time that seemed to stretch infinitely.

  While Armyr regained his strength, his mechanical army continued its relentless work. One by one, the neighboring farms fell under his control.

  The nights were filled with muffled screams and the sound of stakes striking flesh, while the days saw the farm’s courtyard swell with new silhouettes. In just a week, his ranks had grown to three hundred creatures, each ready to carry out his slightest command.

  When Armyr finally emerged from his isolation, a cold gleam in his eyes, he knew the time had come to expand his influence beyond the farms. Standing at the threshold of the house, he surveyed his army. The puppets formed a uniform mass, their expressionless faces turned toward him like statues awaiting divine orders. Armyr raised his hand.

  — "Go," he breathed.

  At that moment, the sinister army moved as one, like a single organism. It poured onto the neighboring village. No prayer, no scream, no barricade could withstand this dark tide of destruction. Armyr’s shadow spread, and with it came unrelenting chaos.

  Within two weeks, the number of his puppets had reached terrifying proportions. Five thousand creatures stood ready to unleash darkness upon anyone who dared defy their master. Villages and towns fell one after another, consumed by this dark wave that seemed never to falter.

  *****

  The mist stretched over the fields, thick and shifting, shrouding the landscape. On the horizon, three mounted silhouettes emerged, their blurred outlines barely visible through the damp air. The guards advanced slowly, their wet armor glistening in the pale light. The horses, imposing and restless, snorted in short bursts, their nostrils exhaling icy vapor.

  At the farm, the door creaked open with a piercing screech. The farmer, under Armyr’s relentless control, stepped out. His empty eyes betrayed no emotion, and he bowed his head in a gesture of submission.

  The guards exchanged glances. One of them, the oldest, furrowed his brow as he observed this figure. His hand moved to rest on the hilt of his sword.

  — "Have you seen anything strange in the area?" he called out.

  The farmer shook his head.

  Irritated by the silence, the nearest guard dismounted, his boots sinking into the mud. He moved forward, his sharp gaze scanning every corner of the farm.

  — "Who are you?" he growled suddenly, his eyes locking onto a figure emerging from the shadow of the doorway.

  Armyr descended the steps, a smile playing on his lips.

  — "I’m just a passerby," he replied.

  The farmer bowed his head again. The guards exchanged uneasy looks, suspicion glinting in their eyes.

  — "This place reeks of death," murmured one of the riders who had remained mounted, his fingers gripping the reins tightly. "We should leave."

  — "We leave when I say so," the eldest retorted sharply, his muscles tense, his gaze fixed on Armyr.

  He took another step forward, his hand sliding over the hilt of his sword.

  — "Give me a good reason not to cut you down right here, stranger," he demanded.

  Armyr burst into laughter.

  — "If you insist, go ahead and try," he replied.

  That was the breaking point. Rage flared in the guard’s eyes, and he drew his sword. But before the blade could strike, Armyr moved.

  His hand shot out from beneath his coat, a wooden stake gripped tightly in his fingers like the instrument of an inevitable sentence. The weapon cut through the air with a sinister whistle, finding its mark with unerring precision.

  The stake drove into the guard’s eye socket. A wet squelch accompanied the impact, followed by a cracking sound, as though an overripe nut had been shattered. The skin tore around the wood, releasing a thick liquid that trickled down his cheek, leaving a reddish trail on his pale skin. A brief flash of white appeared—a fragment of dislodged bone—before vanishing into the bloody mass.

  A strangled gurgle rose from his throat, his breath catching on the sudden surge of blood.

  The sword slipped from his trembling hands. A wave of terror and agony overwhelmed the guard, clouding his mind. His fingers clawed desperately at his mutilated face, futilely trying to pull free the weapon that sealed his fate.

  His legs buckled, unable to bear his weight. He collapsed. A scream tore from his lips—a desperate, piercing cry that rose into the air like a final echo.

  The guard writhed on the ground, his fingers fumbling frantically around the stake embedded in his eye socket.

  Armyr watched the scene with chilling composure. He studied the spectacle intently. Slowly, he adjusted the sleeve of his coat.

  Silence fell once more.

  The two remaining guards froze for a moment, the scene searing itself into their minds like a horrific vision. Their shock quickly gave way to uncontrollable rage. A savage cry erupted from their throats. Their heels struck their horses' flanks, and the animals surged forward.

  The nearest rider, his jaw clenched in fury, shouted as he swung his blade in a furious arc, aiming for Armyr’s head.

  But before the steel could reach its target, the farmer threw himself into its path.

  The sword plunged into his chest. The wood cracked under the impact, splinters flying and scattering into the air around the blade. The farmer collapsed to the ground. His body twisted into a grotesque contortion, joints dislocated, as fragments of wood lay scattered around him.

  His vacant eyes stared at an unseen point.

  Even the horses hesitated at the sinister sight. They pawed the ground nervously, their nostrils blowing heavy clouds of vapor into the cold air. Armyr stepped back.

  — "Stop, scoundrel!" one of the guards shouted.

  Armyr dashed down the stairs leading to the kitchen. There, under the flickering lantern light, a scene of unsettling order unfolded. Hundreds of stakes filled the room.

  The guards burst into the kitchen, panting, their furious gazes sweeping over the organized chaos surrounding them. They stopped for a moment, stunned by the strange collection.

  The older of the two stepped forward, his sword still raised, his gaze moving back and forth between the stakes and Armyr. His features, stern yet marked by tension, betrayed a mixture of anger and doubt.

  — "What the hell are you doing here?" he growled.

  Armyr gave a sinister smile, his eyes gleaming.

  — "I’m a puppeteer... and you’ve just walked into my trap," he declared.

  Dozens of puppets emerged.

  The two guards exchanged a glance. Fear was evident in their eyes, but they clenched their teeth, tightening their grips on their swords.

  — "They’re just puppets! They can’t harm us!" one of the soldiers roared, though his voice trembled despite himself.

  The second guard swallowed hard, his fingers slipping on the hilt of his weapon, damp with sweat.

  — "Stay focused! This... this isn’t natural," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the advancing puppets.

  Armyr, concealed behind a wooden wall, observed the scene with excitement.

  — "Kill them," he ordered, his voice sharp as a blade.

  The puppets lunged at the guards.

  — "Fall back!" the first guard shouted, raising his sword.

  But the puppets were too fast. One leaped forward, its stake aiming for his flank. However, the weapon slid off his armor with a screech. The guard, startled, stepped back, his sword sending a shower of sparks as it collided with another stake aimed at him.

  Another puppet sprang forward. Its weapon struck the guard but glanced off his shoulder. With an enraged cry, the soldier raised his sword and struck.

  The blade whistled through the air, cleaving into the puppet’s wooden body in an explosion of splinters. The puppet split in two, its pieces falling to the ground with a dull thud.

  — "These things can’t hurt us!" he roared.

  Behind him, the second guard struck another puppet, shattering it with a blow. The puppets, undeterred, adjusted their tactics. Their assault became more calculated. They targeted the joints of the armor, their stakes seeking the neck, armpits, or backs of the knees.

  — "Fall back!" the first guard bellowed, desperately trying to fend off the onslaught.

  One puppet twisted at a grotesque angle, its stake driving forcefully into a weak spot behind the guard’s armor. The wood penetrated his flesh. The guard choked, his eyes widening in a mixture of pain and disbelief.

  — "No!" his companion screamed.

  Another puppet leapt onto him, its weight throwing the guard off balance. He stumbled backward, his sword slipping from his grasp.

  The puppets surrounded their prey, giving no respite. When the assault ended, both guards lay on the ground, their bodies motionless and broken.

  Armyr emerged from the shadows. His puppets froze in place.

  Outside, the horses tied to their posts snorted nervously, their hooves pounding the muddy ground. Armyr stopped in front of the animals.

  He drew his sword. The metal whistled through the air, a sharp sound that resonated like an irrevocable judgment. He brought the blade down on the neck of the first horse, slicing through its flesh.

  A red torrent gushed out, splattering the ground. The horse whinnied, its eyes rolling in panic, before its legs gave out. Its body collapsed with a heavy thud, its final breaths fading in a series of spasms.

  The second horse pulled back, straining against its tether, its nostrils exhaling powerful clouds of vapor. But Armyr, relentless, struck again with his sword. Blood sprayed onto his dark coat.

  A tear rolled down his cheek.

  He raised his eyes to the sky, where the clouds loomed like an oppressive, almost living mass. A fleeting moment of doubt crossed his mind—a thought he dared not voice, a whisper he quickly silenced.

  He lowered his head, his expression hardening. He wiped the tear away with the back of his hand. In a pool of blood, he briefly saw his reflection—distorted and indistinct.