## Story 1 ![19-1.png](/uploads/19_1_21a1a11628.png) In a distant village,
people busy themselves with New Year's festivities.
Within this place lies a beautiful spring known
as the Fountain of Hope.
Today, a woman stares at this most hallowed
sight with ferocity in her eyes.
>Nearby men turn their leering gazes on her fine features.
But after their eyes rest on her for a moment,
they quickly find other ways to occupy their time.
For the woman's left arm and leg are military prosthetics;
tools of war that shine dully in the setting sun.
The scent of blood and death hangs about the woman.
She is an omen of calamity.
And it is the expectation of catastrophe that has brought her to this place.
For she was told by an informant that
the loathsome kingdom is targeting the village.
The kingdom knows the villagers let their
guard down during the New Year's festivities,
and it now schemes to lay them low in one fell swoop.
The fact they are using clockwork men for
this deed tells the woman it will be
a massacre—deaths beyond counting.
She knows the assault can come at any time.
So as the people increase their revelry,
her watchful eye grows ever more keen.
Suddenly, she finds herself approached by
children clad in strange and exotic costumes.
Easy, she reminds herself.
They're not part of the kingdom's plan.
They're just...kids.
She expects the young ones to scatter when
they see her false limbs, but to her great surprise,
they instead gather around her with bright,
shining smiles. ## Story 2 ![19-2.png](/uploads/19_2_73453ec62d.png) The children are costumed as faeries,
a tradition of long standing in this part of the world.
As the bewildered woman looks on, one of them steps forward and speaks:
"Did your wish come true this year, ma'am?"
As she contemplates her answer,
one of the children holds out an offering on the palm of their hand.
It is an intricately carved glass bead filled with
water from the spring.
A ghostly sort of moonlight shimmers on its surface as it wobbles back and forth.
"It's a good-luck charm," says the child. "We make them here."
The woman recalls how she had seen the children running through
town earlier handing small baubles to the adults.
This must be one of their traditions;
a rite where kids dress as
wish-granting faeries and hand out charms to everyone they meet.As understanding dawns,
the woman's brow furrows; she does not have time for such folly.
"Others need this more than me,"
she says, placing the charm back into the stunned child's hand.
"Give it to them instead."
She looks away, hoping to avoid the child's eyes.
She does not need charms. Or luck. Or rites.
She needs only revenge.
She does not have the capacity to "wish" for everyone to be saved.
It is simply not in her nature.
The children stare at her, confused by her tragic expression.
Then, not knowing what else to do,
they say the words that complete the rite:
"We hope all your wishes come true."
Time passes. She waits.
At midnight, fireworks blaze across
the sky to herald the arrival of the new year.
Their brilliance signals the climax of the festivities.
The village and surrounding lands are bathed in a warm,
flickering glow...
One that reveals a heavily armored force moving slowly over the horizon.
## Story 3 ![19-3.png](/uploads/19_3_be0ee41eef.png) Fireworks turn the night sky to dawn.
Explosions spiral flesh and bone high into the air.
The Fountain of Hope bubbles quietly.
Blood trickles from the mouths of the dying.
The festival, once a celebration, has become a rondo of despair.
A clockwork soldier with dead eyes raises his fist before the group of wish-granting children, who can only cling to their charms and pray.
A flash.
The screeching of metal on metal.
The woman has blocked the soldier's attack with her sword.
The look on her face is a thing beyond words. Beyond reason.
Perhaps enraged—perhaps conflicted—she pushes the soldier back and cleaves him cleanly in two.
She then hurries the children into a nearby house.
It will be difficult to save them on her own.
Perhaps impossible. But she intends to try.
"Be silent," she says. "With any luck, your parents are still..."
Her words falter and die in the dark.
Bloodied clockwork men begin emerging from nearby homes, one after the other.
Each carries the corpse of a parent high in the air,
as if displaying the fruits of a great hunt.
Lit by the explosion of a firework,
she can see it all far too clearly.
The children begin to scream.
As if realizing their work is yet incomplete,
the soldiers casually drop their prizes and turn to the sound.
Fear grips the woman,
but she buries it deep inside and makes ready their escape.
Somehow, impossibly,
she manages to lead them all to the outskirts of town.
And when she turns back to see it in flames,
she suddenly realizes what must be done.
## Story 4 ![19-4.png](/uploads/19_4_b85e535cee.png) The woman orders the panicked children to hide.
They are sobbing. Inconsolable.
"This is our fault," they wail.
"Our charms were not powerful enough."
"Actually," says the woman,
"I would like one of those charms now."
Her voice is gentle. Soothing.
It is a thing so, so unfamiliar to her.
Yet it is the same voice she used all those years ago with
the one she held so dear—the one she tried so hard to save.
It is a voice that soothes the weakened,
and it works a kind of calming magic on the children.
She takes one of the good-luck baubles in hand before turning back to town.
As the children begin to pray,
they grip their remaining charms tightly enough to
leave deep marks on the palms of their tiny hands.
To think the kingdom would try to steal hope from ones so young.
They are beyond forgiveness.
But rather than rage,
it is hope that drives her toward battle this day.
Minutes pass. Hours.
The sun finally begins its slow march across the sky.
Just as the children's despair is threatening to
overtake them, the woman returns.
Her body is ablaze in crimson,
her breath a series of ragged gasps.
In one hand, she grasps a number of
severed heads—all that remain of the clockwork soldiers.
In her other, she grips a bloody, tattered charm.
She speaks then. Softly, but sternly.
"You see? My wish came true.
So all of you need to pray to your charms.
You need to live. You need to thrive.
It's all right to cling to things you cannot see.
So find that hope and never let it go.
And when you have children of your own, make sure to pass it down to them as well."
Her voice falters. Are her words true?
Or is she simply trying to convince herself? She doesn't even know anymore.
As she turns and walks away, the tears of
the children begin their long descent to the earth below.
And though their sadness threatens to overwhelm them,
they continue to hold tightly to their charms.
And to their hope.

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