Chapter 1
April 18, 1600
(In a distant land, somewhere in Spain, a young man lived who one day met a strange girl. She appeared out of nowhere in his village, wasted no time getting to know him, and would, without a doubt, change his life forever.)
She crashes into me, arms full of books
“…: HEY! What the hell is wrong with you?!”
I shout angrily and frustrated as I watch her run off, chased in the distance.
{Who the heck is this girl who came out of nowhere?}
{She’s already getting on my nerves…}
(I thought, looking at her with the same disdain one reserves for a turkey being chased for dinner…)
{That was my very first thought during our initial clash. Here, on our land—the land of survivors—though most just call it Térèze. Unusual name, right?
Truth is, I have no idea why. It’s just shorter and less dramatic. But a name isn’t everything. It’s the most modern yet poorest territory in existence, and at the same time, full of mystery and lies.}
Ben: “This is where I’ve spent the last seventeen years of my life,” I say, climbing onto a fallen tree trunk.
Not that anyone cares, of course—I’m not dead! I place a hand over my heart
Don’t even think it! You can imagine it all you want. You wouldn’t cry over a stranger anyway, would you?
People always think the opposite once it’s said out loud. The world is sad, and men’s lives are full of pain. But that doesn’t stop us from loving, does it?
I sigh.
Ben: “So, what do you think?” I ask her.
Berth: “You can do better,” she replies with a sigh.
(She smiles mischievously, the summer breeze playing through her hazelnut curls as they frame her face against a carpet of sky-blue flowers. This was our favorite spot—where our two main characters always ended up sitting together.)
“Are you serious right now?” I say, surprised and a little embarrassed.
“Have you finished it?” she asks, leaning toward me and locking eyes, clearly trying to dodge my question.
I immediately furrow my brows, looking defeated, and let out a sigh to show her I’ve given up on getting an answer.
“Uh… no, I haven’t finished it…”
{She has a real talent for making me feel guilty—whether it’s for good or bad reasons. I still wonder why. But honestly, it’s not such a bad thing if it helps me improve my behavior and the way I am. So in a way, it’s positive… I think.}
As I watch her, her bodyguard—that old geezer Boches—comes stomping toward us.
{What a hideous beard…} I think with disgust.
He’s wearing an ill-trimmed imperial beard and a three-piece suit in the middle of summer. The man must really hate himself to put up with that.
I don’t like him—you’ve probably figured that out—and I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.
Boches: “Miss, you shouldn’t lower yourself by sitting here like a…” he trails off, searching for the word. {Commoner.}
That’s clearly what he meant. It was written all over his face as he shot me a look full of contempt.
Then he places his hand on Berthina’s shoulder a little too forcefully, making it clear she doesn’t belong beside us. I didn’t take it personally—in fact, it stopped me from lunging at his throat. Just seeing him, and knowing her mother was watching us from the window, made my blood boil even more.
Luzia Flawers. Beautiful name, but what a poisonous human being.
Yes, Berthina Flawers is a mixed-race bourgeois girl—Latin roots on her mother’s side, African-American on her father’s.
Two people from completely different backgrounds, yet married. I wonder how they met? Anyway…
I’ve never seen her father. But from what I know, he’s an old friend of mine’s father and apparently someone important, according to Berth.
Who would’ve thought? That’s all I know about him, sadly.
But that’s not really what matters right now. Enough info for now, I tell myself, shaking my head to clear my thoughts.
Then I watch Berthina respond to her bodyguard in a tone far from modest—nothing refined or elegant about it.
It’s more like an argument. Ridiculous, but amusing to watch.
Berth: “Get your hands off me! I’m not going to lower myself to my dear mother’s level just to please her. Besides, she acts all tough in high heels when she can barely walk straight. I’d rather stay here with Ben a thousand times over than put up with her.”
She grabs my shoulder as she says it.
(My real name is Benito, by the way—nice to meet you.)
Boches replies in a weak voice:
“…Very well, Miss…”
He knew it was pointless to argue further. He gives me a heavy sidelong glare, making it clear that I’m the one who should be treated like that.
{Serves him right,} I think, smirking.
That’s the Berth I know best—this confident, determined side of her. In the neighborhood, they gave her a nickname for it: Dulzura picante—spicy sweetness. Most of the locals are Spanish survivors who escaped the war and left the island for the first time. They were brave, and I admire them for it. They deserve respect after everything they went through.
Everyone calls her that because of the gentle heart hidden beneath her fiery personality that everyone can feel. Except when she’s running away from home—then it’s “Miss” or “Princess Berthina Flawers III.”
Say anything else and Boches will chop off a limb without remorse. She knows she can’t fight it or intervene, so she’s forced to witness these disgusting scenes since she was a little girl. Her family name must never be tarnished—they carried our land to victory, after all.
But why such a cruel system? You might ask. Well, even though we in the neighborhood are treated like commoners,
I understand her. No one should grow up thinking violence is proof of respect or honor for so-called saviors. That family is truly cruel. At least, that’s not what her mother thinks—her sick cruelty always disturbed me. I used to wonder about it until I realized she’s just like that. And then my own mother once told me:
“Don’t complain about other people’s hatred until you can understand and bear your own.”
But she had to leave right after saying it… and I never saw her again.
After a pointless argument, Berthina finally gave in and left.
She has a strict curfew set by her father, enforced by Boches.
All for her “safety,” or so she says.
But deep down—even if she doesn’t realize it—every bite of food, every step she takes, every person she meets is watched and controlled, day and night, whether she likes it or not. She forces herself to endure it and pretends it’s fine.
How do I know all this? You were bound to wonder eventually, right?
Simple: I’m in love with Berthina…
and she holds the truth about my mother’s death.
{That is the question: never trust the answer.}
I will uncover what happened to you, Mother, and I will have my revenge on that family—no matter if my feelings for her stand in the way. I’ll rip them out of my heart if I have to.