The hamlet—no, the village—hummed with a muffled activity. Monsters came and went, some carrying wood, others hammering stones, still others dragging reeking carcasses they piled up like offerings. Together they formed a grotesque imitation of human daily life. Regulated, mechanical gestures, as if an invisible hand dictated their cadence.

And him, among them.

A man.

A survivor.

He mimicked their movements, adjusted his steps to the horde's rhythm, lowered his eyes when needed, lifted burdens he had learned to make look plausible, without betraying his humanity too much. Often, he held his breath, fearing that a conscious, too-living breath might set him apart.

It had been three days since his lucidity had returned. Three days since he had stopped being a puppet. Three days since he rediscovered the sensation of owning his hands, his legs, his breath. And yet… he had to use them as though they weren't his, as though his consciousness were just an intruder in this monstrous masquerade.

His companion had not been so lucky. The last look he had given Renn, before the haze clouded his eyes, before his face froze in an absent expression, was burned into Renn's memory. Since then, his friend had walked, worked, eaten like the others—a shell inhabited by a foreign will.

Every time Renn met that empty stare, it was like a slap across the face.

He didn't know how long he could remain like this. His lucidity always returned at random, as if the wooden mask—that thing ruling here—failed to completely break him. Maybe a flaw, maybe a slower curse.

He had tried to escape, one night. His legs had carried him to the palisade, but before he could climb, an unbearable pain had exploded in his skull. Voices, whispers screaming inside his temples. He had collapsed, trembling, and by morning he had been forced to take his place again, pretending as if nothing had happened.

This village… it wasn't a monster's refuge. It was a living prison, a theater where captive humans, beasts, or awakened ones were condemned to play extras until their will completely dissolved.

And he, alone among the puppets, was still aware of his string.

He knew it wouldn't last.

———

Renn moved in silence, a rough plank balanced on his shoulder, feigning to be one of those docile beings that filled the hamlet. His steps crunched against the dust, but no one turned toward him. All kept the same rhythm, the same stiffness. That was what frightened him the most: this perfect mimicry, as if they all shared one single pulse.

Three days. Three days since he had regained control of his body. Three days he had lived in fear of betraying himself. Sometimes, he even feared his eyes would give him away: too human, too alive. So he learned to mimic that empty gaze, to drain the spark from his pupils, as though death had already settled in him.

But his thoughts never stopped spinning. They circled back, again and again, to that cursed mission.

He remembered the screams. Nervous laughter at the start, when their two teams had crossed into the northern zone. They had encountered a small detachment from Pilaf's army, armored silhouettes, faces shut like iron doors. For a moment, he thought the encounter would turn into an immediate clash; but the beasts had come first, shrieking, bursting from trees, rocks, the mud itself. A perfectly laid ambush, as if they knew every stone of that land.

The first minutes had been blazing chaos. Steel clashing, human screams blending with bestial roars. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and that feral stench of fur scorched by stigmas. Renn had fought, yes, with all his strength, but very quickly he felt panic spreading in the ranks: they had no advantage. Every corner of the terrain betrayed them.

He could still recall Lieutenant Ardek's stare, caught by a monstrous claw, his body pierced like a ragdoll. He remembered Yelis's fall, his childhood friend, swallowed by shadow, and her strangled cry that cut off all at once.

When the howls finally died, when the turmoil subsided, only two from his squad remained, two from Pilaf's. Four souls spared by sheer chance, trembling, bloodied.

They had decided to retreat. It was the only sensible choice.

But on the way back, the whispers had begun.

At first, Renn thought it was his imagination, the remains of adrenaline and shock. A faint voice, like the rustle of leaves, the hiss of wind between stones. But soon, he understood it wasn't only in his head: his companions heard it too. Their eyes widened, their breathing grew ragged. Something, somewhere, was following them, brushing against them.

In the days that followed, one after another, they went silent. No more complaints, no more words. Their eyes lost all light. Renn had seen his last fellow—one from Pilaf—tip over in an instant. One second, he staggered with fatigue, rubbing his face; the next, his movements grew smooth, too smooth, and he joined the puppets' march.

Renn had woken up alone.

Alone among a column of breathing mannequins, forced to follow their cadence or be torn from his fragile reprieve.

Since then, fear gnawed at him.

Sometimes, he wondered if it wouldn't be simpler to give in, to let himself be swallowed, to join that comfortable silence reigning in the void of their eyes. To stop thinking, stop fearing. But each time, a small flame reignited in his chest: the memory of Yelis, her laugh too loud, her stubbornness. She would never have accepted to become a puppet. So neither would he.

And yet the sword hung above him, invisible. At every step, he feared an alien hand would fall once more on his mind, rip away control, lock him in a dark cage from which he'd never return.

His companion, the other survivor, was living proof. Seeing him like this—a man once full of arrogance and pride, reduced to an automaton—was worse than any beast's claws.

So Renn watched, calculated, repeated each gesture like a prayer. Lift. Place. Turn. Walk. Sit. Swallow. Stare into the void. Again and again, like a grotesque dance.

But in his heart, he counted. He counted the guards, the patrols, the beasts who seemed to command the others. He observed the palisade, the weaknesses in the wood, the night shadows. He noted their trajectories, the moments when the voices in his head grew quieter. Because he knew he couldn't stay here forever.

If he stayed too long, he'd end up like them.

Each night, when the monsters collapsed into their dreamless torpor, he leaned against a plank and let his mind run. The whispers were always there, lurking, insidious, but he forced his own memories against them: the warmth of the campfire, the smell of rain on stone, the human voices laughing at his side. He repeated them like mantras, over and over, to keep from dissolving.

Three days of lucidity.

Three days of reprieve.

And every second could be the last.

A doubt gnawed at his soul: why him? Why did his consciousness return, when the others were all consumed? Was it a flaw in the wooden mask's grip? Or a more refined cruelty, a sadistic game forcing him to contemplate his fate before dragging him into it?

He didn't have the answer. But he knew this: as long as he could still think, as long as he could still remember his name, he wasn't defeated.

And his name, he repeated inwardly, again and again, like a talisman:

I am Renn. I am alive. I am not a puppet.

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