By Eliza Victoria
The skies in that small town remain dark from the past wars.
The smoke of gunfire and shattered bones covers the sun like a veil. All that is left for those still living are the tiny shacks of the dead soldiers and the old church, and a night that doesn’t seem to end.
But they have ways of telling the passing of the hours: heartbeats, the cry of the lizards, bloody tallies on pale skin. And in the mornings, without fail, the Wardens gather in the old church, weaving around the now useless pews, to their Leader standing by the altar, holding her weapon in her hands.
They, too, hold their weapons, waiting for the signal. The Wardens’ hands do not shake when they carry the black metal balls, balanced on their palms like an offering to the altar. The balls, fashioned from the cannon balls of their barbaric forefathers, are attached by an intricate chain to their right wrists, entwined around the fingers of their right hands.