The afternoon sun fell like molten lead over the temple courtyard, turning the ancient stones into furnaces that burned the bare feet of the children. Zayto, now fully four years old, shrank into the narrow shadow cast by one of the cloister columns. His fingers, already marked with small scars from forced labor, nervously traced the veins of the stone behind his back, as if seeking some safety in the cold mineral against the heat of the hostility surrounding him.
At four years old, Zayto already understood the meaning of the word "untouchable."
It was not something that had ever been explained to him. No adult had bothered to sit down and define the term. He had learned the only way children truly learn—through the relentless repetition of pain.
"If you touch him, you'll end up crippled too!" Loran shouted, his face red from the effort of shoving a younger boy toward Zayto.
The pushed boy—a little thing of maybe five years, with wide eyes and a trembling mouth—stumbled back as if he had seen a snake.
"I wasn’t going to touch him!" he protested, rubbing the arm where Loran had grabbed him. "I was just looking..."
"Don't even look!" Loran stepped forward, his taller body casting a shadow that reached Zayto. "My father said his deformity is contagious. And that it came from his mother’s sin."
Zayto kept his eyes down, though his eyelids trembled. His tongue darted across his cracked lips, tasting the salty sweat that had gathered there. He didn’t answer. He never answered.
The other children—a group of six or seven who always followed Loran like vultures trailing a lion—laughed together. The sound was like knives falling onto a wooden board: sharp, uneven, dangerously close.
"He can’t even talk right," mocked a girl with tightly braided hair. "He sounds like an animal."
"A crippled animal," Loran corrected, drawing more laughter.
Zayto inhaled deeply through his nose, feeling the hot air burn in and out of his lungs like fire. His fingers dug deeper into the crevices of the stone behind him, until his nails throbbed with pain.
The temple children learned quickly: Zayto was different. He was dangerous.
And on that particularly cruel afternoon, when the monks were busy preparing for the solstice festival and the supervision over the orphans was looser, the gang of boys led by Loran saw their chance.
Zayto felt it before he saw it—the shift in the quality of the silence, the way the air seemed to grow heavier. When he raised his eyes, they were already there: five boys forming a semicircle in front of him, blocking his only escape route.
Loran stood at the center, of course. His arms crossed over his chest, making him seem even bigger compared to Zayto’s slight frame. Behind him, the others shuffled like hunting dogs, eager for the command to attack.
"Look how he walks!" Loran mocked, adopting an exaggeratedly hunched posture and dragging one foot grotesquely as he walked in circles. "He looks like a drunken crab!"
Sharp laughter filled the air, echoing against the courtyard walls like the screams of predatory birds.
Zayto felt his face burn—not with shame, but with something deeper, darker, an emotion he did not yet know how to name.
"Why don’t you try walking properly, monster?" another boy spat, stepping forward.
Zayto glanced quickly around, searching for a way out, for an adult who might intervene. But the courtyard was deserted, and the monks were too far away to hear.
When he tried to stand, his left leg—always treacherous—gave out at the wrong moment. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched to break his fall. His hands hit the stone floor first, followed by his knees.
The pain was sharp and immediate, but insignificant compared to the crash of laughter that followed.
"Look at him! He can’t even stand up!"
Something hot and wet trickled down his left knee. When Zayto looked down, he saw dark blood running over his jutting bone, mixing with the dust of the courtyard.
That was when the first stone hit his back.
The impact was surprisingly painful—a sharp jolt that spread like hot liquid down his spine. Zayto let out an involuntary grunt, which only made the boys laugh harder.
"Let's see if you can run now, monster!"
Another stone. This one struck his shoulder blade with a dull thud. Zayto clenched his teeth so hard he felt a stab of pain in his jaw. His eyes burned, but he refused to cry. Not in front of them. Never in front of them.
It was when the third stone—larger and sharper—hit the back of his neck that something inside him snapped.
The taste of blood filled his mouth—not just from the split lip he had bitten to keep from screaming, but from something deeper, more visceral. It was as if his anger had a taste, and it was metallic and hot.
Zayto would never be able to explain what happened next.
One of the boys—the youngest of the group, perhaps only five years old—stepped forward to throw another stone.
His foot slipped in the pool of blood forming under Zayto’s wounded knee.
And then the boy screamed.
It was not a scream of triumph or mockery. It was a high, piercing sound, full of pure terror.
"He touched me! He touched me with his blood!"
Panic spread through the group like fire through dry straw.
Loran, who had seemed so brave just a moment ago, staggered back several steps, his eyes wide.
"You idiot!" he yelled at the boy, who was now crying and frantically rubbing his foot against the ground as if trying to scrub off the contact. "Now you’re going to end up like him!"
Zayto, still on his knees, looked at the chaos he had created without lifting a finger.
Blood dripped from his chin, pooling on the ground in small red circles.
And for the first time that afternoon, for the first time in his life—he smiled.
It was a small smile. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.
And Loran saw it.
The older boy’s eyes met Zayto’s, and for a brief instant, something new flickered in them: fear.
"He's a demon," Loran murmured, backing away even more. "Let’s get out of here. Before he does something worse."
The group quickly scattered, leaving behind only the youngest boy, who was still crying and rubbing his foot against the ground as if he could erase the touch.
Zayto remained alone in the courtyard, the blood drying on his face, the afternoon sun painting everything gold.
It was at that moment that he discovered something important about himself:
Anger tasted better than tears.
And he decided, then and there, that he would never cry again.
At least not where anyone could see.