I was being dragged. Literally. Jonka held my hand with the stubbornness of a kid who knows exactly what she wants — which, generally speaking, is one of the most dangerous types of kids. Her small, dirty fingers gripped my arm like she was absolutely certain I’d follow her to the ends of the world.

Spoiler: I did. Not because I wanted to. But because resisting was just more effort.

“Where exactly are we going?” I asked for the fifth time, trying to keep up with her pace and avoid the suspicious puddles in the alley.

“You’ll see,” she answered, practically buzzing with excitement.

We turned a corner behind an abandoned warehouse, and Jonka let go of my hand. She started moving some rotten planks aside, revealing a narrow passage between two buildings. We went in. The smell of mold and neglect hit me like a polite slap: present, but not urgent.

And then I saw it.

It was a castle. Or at least, it had tried to be one. A two-story stone building, clearly ancient, covered in vines and decay. A collapsed side tower, windows without glass, half-fallen wooden gates. The kind of place where you’d expect bored ghosts or a very old cat.

Jonka spread her arms wide, proud as can be.

“Welcome to my castle.”

“Your… castle,” I repeated, crossing my arms. “Right. And I suppose you’re…?”

She lifted her chin.

“The princess.”

“Of course. The princess.” I paused, as if on cue. “From where, exactly? The Kingdom of Unsupervised Kids?”

She looked at me like I had just said the dumbest thing in the history of the universe.

“I’m the princess of Berimen.”

That caught me off guard. I raised an eyebrow.

“You do realize this place was destroyed over a hundred years ago, right?”

She shrugged, as if replying “so what?” and walked away like the ruined castle was just another palace and I was a clueless peasant lucky enough to be invited.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the place, feeling a strange chill. Something about that castle felt too old for her age. And the way she spoke… it wasn’t a joke. It was a certainty.

Either she had an incredibly vivid imagination… or something was completely out of place.

Again.

I pushed open the creaking wooden door, which protested with a long, tired groan — like it was complaining about being forgotten for so long. I stepped inside, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light reigning there. The air was heavy, damp, filled with the scent of rotten wood, cold stone, and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on — maybe something dead, or just time falling apart.

The smell was weird. Not foul, not pleasant. Just that kind of “weird” that seems to have something to say — but in silence.

The main hall was spacious but empty. Broken furniture remnants and shards of glass scattered on the floor told stories of better days, now just whispers in the silence. The stone walls, covered in vines that stubbornly grew despite neglect, had deep cracks letting a bit of weak light slip through the windowless openings.

The crooked ceiling beams seemed to hold up what was left of the structure, like tired hands carrying an impossible weight. At the far end, a huge stone fireplace, full of old ashes and chunks of charcoal, had been silent for years. The place reeked of abandonment but also a kind of buried dignity, like an exhausted warrior refusing to fall.

Jonka walked around the hall with absurd confidence for such a ruin, and then, suddenly, she started to move.

She danced.

Her bare feet touched the cold floor, but her body seemed to float. The tattered dress came alive with every spin, fluttering lightly like a shy breeze. Dust danced with her, lit by the stray rays of sunlight sneaking in through cracks, creating tiny golden spots in the air.

At that moment, the abandoned castle stopped being just dead stone and old wood. It was as if Jonka, with her dance, was the soul still beating there — fragile, rebellious, and filled with a strength I couldn’t fully grasp.

I stood frozen, trapped in that image, feeling there was something much more hidden in that place and that girl than any ruined castle could show at first glance.

While I was still digesting Jonka’s silent dance, I heard light footsteps behind me. The other kids who had arrived earlier gathered when they saw her figure. One by one, they knelt in an almost automatic reverence, bowing with respect — or was it fear?

Jonka didn’t seem bothered. With the same naturalness she’d announced herself princess, she walked over to an improvised pedestal in the corner of the hall — some kind of decrepit throne made of bits of wood and stone, decorated with dry leaves and cobwebs that seemed to witness decades of silence.

I felt completely out of place. What was this? What kind of weird game was this, where kids bowed to a “barefoot princess” in ruins? Had I stumbled into some cult or a lunatic’s theater?

That feeling of facing something beyond reason only grew. And the more I tried to understand, the more the ground slipped beneath my feet.

The kids’ voices intertwined into a tuned whisper, soft enough to sound rehearsed and precise enough not to be.

The sound filled the hall like a cold, ancient mist, as if the words weren’t just being spoken but unearthed.

“It’s time, as destined

The sun already scorches the soil

Like in an enchanted vision

Where the skies are a watercolor…”

The air seemed to thicken, growing colder, like the castle itself was holding its breath. Jonka, sitting on the mossy, ash-covered stone throne, slowly raised her hands. Her eyes met mine — and in that instant, the girl who dragged me through the alleys vanished.

What remained was something old. Too old to belong to such a small body. An echo of someone—or something—that never really left.

“The stars are aligned

Hearts beat in devotion

Waiting for your arrival

Waiting for salvation…”

The song echoed between broken columns, multiplied by cracked walls. A chorus of small voices summoning something too big to fit there. My instinct screamed to run, but my legs were stuck — maybe from fear, maybe from something worse.

Jonka stepped down from the throne like a miniature priestess, walking among the kneeling children. She passed right by me without touching, but the temperature around her dropped. A chill that wasn’t physical but seemed to bite the soul.

And then I knew: this wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a joke.

It was a rite.

And I was at its center.