In low, stiff shoes, feet hurt. Running under the scorching sun makes him sweat, and his clothes, dirty with mud and blood, stick to his skin.

Crisante is sickened by his smell. He feels a sharp pain in his spleen. His legs continue to throw pangs that make the former Prince cry even more.

He would like to stop and look back. Look at the road he took, at the distance he managed to put between himself and that Witch's house, of those horrible people who serve her and flatter her.

He hates them. Crisante hates them all.

He has no doubts about it, and so he runs. He has to run across the prairies. Far from the palace, far from the city. In those places, they would find him immediately and kill him.

He tried to talk to the Praetor-Duke, his father. He tried to incite the gendarmes to rebel and the servants to disobedience. But they do not listen. They do not understand.

The world belongs to the wizards.

“It belongs to me!”

A protruding stone sends the boy tumbling to the ground. A further humiliation that he cannot tolerate. Not even a liberating cry is allowed to him. Not even that.

If I were a wizard, I would make the stones disappear. I would make all the rules, the etiquette, and all the witches vanish. I would submerge them with rocks.

Crisante pulls himself up in pain, only to fall again. His legs cannot support him, and his spleen hurts too much.

The boy turns, looking at a cloud crossing the sky. He feels like he has to cry again. He stops. Now, they will catch him. They will get him, and it will all be over. The Witch will eat him, or she knows what other horrible things.

Witches are horrible.

“Cipecipopù, you lied to me. You lied to me!"

Crisante remains on the ground, in the sun. Her body responds with difficulty as time passes. Nobody arrives. Nobody goes to get him.

“Did I manage to escape?”

Those words are full of doubt and expectation. Did he do it? Did he really manage to escape from the clutches of those evil people?

“Cipeci, sorry for earlier. I didn't mean to accuse you. Indeed, you were right. Escaping was a good idea. They can't catch me.”

There is no response. Only the cicadas continue to sing.

Crisante turns sideways. In the short grass, some small field flowers: daisies, violets, and dandelions. The pain is waning, replaced by tiredness. It is so eerie that Cipecipopù does not respond.

Maybe he was offended because I accused him of lying.

Crisante gets up. He looks at the blue dress full of dust, mud, blood, and unpleasant disturbing thoughts. He stabbed his father. An awful gesture for which he now feels guilty. But it was necessary. He did not hit a vital point, or at least he tried.

“If I hadn't done it, Dad would still be under that Witch's control.”

A mosquito buzzes around, and Crisante tries to chase it away. It comes back and rests on the back of his hand. It has unnaturally red, hypnotic eyes.

“Indeed, indeed, my young apprentice. You are right. Your noble father could not have been freed otherwise.”

“Cipeci, what are you doing in a mosquito?”

“An ancient ‘magician’ like me can be whatever he desires.”

The answer makes sense. Just because Cipecipopù manifested himself as a puppet at the palace does not mean he could not be something different. But that ‘wizard’, pronounced with an archaic synonymous.

Crisante thinks about that last day and a half. He looks at the mosquito and feels happy and understood. The magician suddenly appeared in his room. He read his mind and confided in him many things already suspected. That witches are evil and have taken magic from men out of fear, that men should rule the earth, and that he has the potential to be a first among firsts. Obviously, his talent is suppressed, like his father's, by the wickedness of the witches.

The mosquito bites the palm. Unexpectedly painful, Crisante makes a perplexed expression.

“Cipeci, you hurt me.”

“Ho, sorry.”

“When will I get my powers back? I'm pretty far from witches, aren't I? The barrier doesn't reach this far.”

“Of course, you are far enough away. No Witch will be able to interfere.”

With a wave of his hand, Crisante chases away the mosquito.

“Stop sucking my blood. Instead, tell me more about your world. It's true that in your land, wizards ride the storms, full of muscles, unstoppable!”

The question turned into a statement. Arms stretched towards the sky. Crisante's eyes opened wide to observe a cloud.

The mosquito lands on his nose.

“Certain. I'm not a demon who found an open portal. I didn't deceive a stupid child.”

The mosquito bites on the nose, hurting even more. Crisante chases him away and jumps up.

“Is teasing me fun? I was thinking of rewarding you for your service, but if you put it that way. I won't.”

“Look, I'm very serious. In your opinion, is it more likely that I took you away from the barrier to consume you or that I saved you from a Witch I don't even know?”

“You can't be serious. You're not funny.”

The mosquito begins to inflate in mid-air. Bumps of flesh grow all around her, taking up more and more space. Crisante recoils in horror.

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“Kid, it's a good thing you're scared. Do you feel disgusted? Better. Regret and disappointment? Do you feel cheated and cheated? Stupendous.”

“Who… who are you? Where is Cipecipopù!?”

“It's me. I'm a little demon who still has to grow up. In this, we are a similar species. To grow, I have to eat. Eating gold and creatures that fear me, that have negative feelings. Ouch, ouch, little Prince. Oops! Former Prince. I think no one will come to save you here.”

Crisante screams as he sees a long, thin arm emerge from the mass of flesh. A second one comes out, and the sphere opens, revealing a toothy mouth.

Run. Spleen or not, run. Legs or not, he runs. He looks behind him and runs. Luckily, the mutating being does not seem to be able to chase him.

“I'll find you, don't worry. Your smell will always guide me.” The creature screeches horrifyingly. Crisante covers his ears and runs with his head down, careful not to slip again on some stone.

How could he be so stupid? How did he not notice? Wizards do not exist. Everyone repeated it until exhaustion. Wizards do not exist. But demons do. Demons exist and hate living beings.

“I was stupid! Stupid! STUPID!”

The tutors' history lessons come to mind. Demons do these things. Demons live on the border, where witches have built their sanctuaries. But the Wall Witch should prevent this. This is what she is for.

It's their fault. It's always their fault. Witches. Damn evil creatures.

Filled with anger, fear, and a racing heart, Crisante runs.

He runs until he sees them: the houses. There is also a dirt road, some people carrying large baskets of wheat, others mowing wheat fields in the background.

“A village! A village!”

Hope infuses, giving new energy to the tired little body.

The structure that attracts the most attention is the stone church. It is a squat and low structure without windows and towers.

“A church of the Ethnarch! I am safe, safe!”

The churches of the Etnarch have only one front wooden door and a single nave. A central chandelier enlights the hall.

Crisante takes his first steps in that environment and is confused. The door creaks as he closes it. He should be safe here. The demon talked about the smell. Here, the use of lavender and incense should mask his.

Looking around, Crisante realizes that there is nothing except a row of worn benches and an altar in the middle of the nave. The chandelier is nothing more than a lighthouse pointed at the altar.

No statues, frescoes, decorations, gold, or precious stones embellish the structure. Even the court, visited during certain official ceremonies, is infinitely more solemn than that church.

The church is dedicated to the ancient wizards who created the world. That church in the palace knows is a fiction, a mockery to keep the restless calm.

They're wrong. They're all wrong. Even that demon who thinks he's so smart.

Just because he deceived me once doesn't mean the Ethnarch's church is wrong!

As he approaches the altar, a figure emerges from a small side cell.

“Hello, welcome to—but are you bloody? Damn!” The wizard comes running. Wrapped in the yellow and green habit, with his chest exposed and the necklace of large rings swinging, which forms the waistband of his trousers, the man has his eyes wide open.

Seeing him, muscular and full of dark hair, with his hair shaved on the side, gives Crisante confidence.

He may not be as imposing as the palace gendarmes, but he is a wizard. He is a real man. Without frills and trinkets, without obsequious and servile ways.

He exists. That's where he's getting closer. Wizards exist. Thinking of one for each church, up to the great Ethnarch, fills the former Prince with confidence. In himself, in what he wants to believe is true.

At the palace, they lied. They all lied so as not to upset my mother. But when I return, they will see that men like those in the legends exist!

“Greetings to you, wizard of Ampra. Do not worry, it is animal blood. But the danger has not passed.”

The wizard stops, making Crisante doubt his words.

Has he already discovered my lies? I said animal, but what if it knew? How was that story? Can wizards read minds while breathing?

Crisante begins to feel agitated. The wizard kneels. The links of the heavy rust-colored chain jingle. He places his hand on the boy's shoulder.

“Son, are you a nobleman?”

Crisante shakes his head vehemently. He thanks good fortune that his suit is so caked in mud. The family emblem on the skirt is covered, and he can make up any excuse.

Wizards hate witches. As a result, they might hate him too. Of course, once they discover devotion to the cause, they would applaud it. They would cover him with honors and positions, and he would become a great magician leading the wisest people. If those awake, who saw beyond the smoke screen.

“Little one, I guess you're scared. Tell me what family you belong to. I will escort you to your home. So, are you the son of the Harvest Witch? No, she lives too far away. What families are there near here… ha, yes, you are the son of the Fantini marquises. The Delphine assigned you to these camps recently. I imagine you missed playing.”

Crisante is confused. What is this wizard saying? Why does he speak like this about the nobles? Perhaps there exists a rule that prevents him from telling the truth to children. But he is not just any child. He is the child who will be a great wizard. There is no need to lie.

“Glorious Magician, you misrepresent. Two paths brought me here: taking your path as well as escaping from a very dangerous demon.”

“Hm, from how you speak, it is obvious. You are noble. I do not know what education procedures you have. But I would say they are quite harsh. So, you're here to take vows? I imagine the demon is a symbolic thing. How much will the family donate to the church?”

“Donate?”

“Yes, the donation supports the cult. A percentage remains with the local diocese, a part goes to the Empire, and one to the Ethnarch. The rest is up to the Second Witch. Has not your family already talked to her about it?”

“Talked to… the Second Witch?”

The man nods and stands up.

“Yes, I am sorry they did not prepare you properly. Well. It makes sense, even though I am not part of it. I can imagine that being of the gentry is not like being in Parliament. You tell your mother you need written permission from the Second Witch. The cult makes use of ritual lavender, an imperial monopoly. All apprentices and wizards must be approved.”

Crisante looks at the buried toes of his shoes. He is not understanding. He is unsure what to say.

“Cannot you, brave wizard, give me the letter?”

The man bursts into laughter that echoes through the room. Crisante looks at him, full of anger, feeling humiliated. No servant ever allowed himself to mock him. Not even tutors. Much less the gendarmes, who are even bigger than him.

“No, I cannot. If you were a commoner, we could talk about it. But nobles have laws of their own. Ask your parents. They will certainly explain to you.”

Crisante stomps his feet.

“I cannot ask my parents! The demon killed them.”

The man ruffles Crisante's already messy hair. He has a heavy, calloused hand.

“Sure, fine. The evil demon that came out of the sanctuary.”

“Indeed!”

“It's not good to waste adults' time. What would a believer think when entering now?”

“I don't care!”

“Instead, it should if that's the path you want to take. Listen, we offer a unique service. It is a safe and controlled entertainment. It's addictive, sure, but we all gain from it. We avoid the fields, the factory. They have their momentary escape from the Empire. The Empire and the Second Witch earn money and public order. This is why it is important not to throw tantrums or waste time. I'm preparing a sermon; do you want to see how I done?”

“The demon will kill us!”

Suddenly Crisante is afraid. It bursts, overflowing the dam of his thoughts. It is an intense fear fueled by that man's incomprehensible, false, and hateful words.

“You are not a real wizard!”

The man looks at Crisante perplexed.

“Wizards don't exist, son. Ho, you won't tell me that your parents used to tell you that fairy tale? For some reason, they also take root in the lower nobility at times. It is an interesting phenomenon, which the Second Witch evaluated on an economic level. I'm sorry, but they lied to you. Wizards-don't-exist.”

Crisante starts to tremble. His teeth chatter uncontrollably. Suddenly, it is as if that demon is just behind the door, waiting for him.

‘That's not a wizard. He can't defend you’ he says.

The demon will bite him with that long mosquito beak. He will drain it and then munch it. It will be like a crunchy crackling.

Crisante grabs the magician's robe.

“Please help me. Help me, please! I'm Crisante. Crisante Delphine, and there's a demon that wants to eat me.”