In the distance, he could hear the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the gym.
It was Ceres training her dives, as always.
Her body cut through the water with perfection, a graceful and relentless shadow, as if she were the very embodiment of the system.
Immaculate.
Untouchable.
Loved.
Theo looked at her for a moment.
And, for the first time, he was not sure whether he still wanted to be loved by her either.
In the courtyard, the silhouette of the tower in the distance dominated the horizon like an accusing finger pointed at everyone.
Theo stared at it, his jaw clenched, and inside he felt a knot of nervousness he did not know how to untie.
One side of him wanted only to run away, cross the gates, disappear from the city, forget the corridors, the lines, the hymns, the tower forever.
But the image of his brother Tycho always appeared in his mind—helpless and sweet, as only he could be.
How could I abandon him?
And then the weight returned—that feeling of lead that now seemed permanent in his chest.
That inner voice—cold, relentless—began repeating inside him, like an executioner reciting the sentence:
“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
But every time he repeated the mantra, he felt more damaged inside.
More cracked.
Closer to shattering.
“Traitor.”
“Coward.”
“Weak.”
“Burn already, traitor.”
The words echoed in his mind until he began cursing himself, teeth clenched, fists closed.
And in a fit of rage, he raised his hand and began striking his own head, as though trying to drive those forbidden thoughts out.
“Theo...?” Ceres’s voice cut through the air beside him.
He froze.
Her eyes were on him—cold, attentive, and for the first time carrying a trace of something different: suspicion.
She had never seen that behavior in Theo.
He was Mother Ceres’s white prince, always impeccable... until now.
“What is this? What’s happening to you?” she asked, almost in a commanding tone.
Theo took a deep breath, slowly lowered his hand, trying to recover his composure.
“It’s nothing, Ceres. Nothing.”
But she did not believe him.
Ceres could feel that discord in him like a splinter beneath the skin.
And it disturbed her.
She took a step forward, trying to touch the wound at his temple.
“Let me see.”
But Theo recoiled in a sharp movement, almost angry.
Her eyes hardened.
They were no longer moving to the same rhythm.
It was as if they spoke different languages.
“You’re hiding something. I can see it.” Ceres’s voice was low, firm, as if she had already judged him.
Theo inhaled deeply, feeling anger boiling beneath his skin, and when he spotted Tycho in the distance—the boy running with an innocent smile—he could not take it.
“Get out of here, Tycho! Go mind your own business!” he shouted harshly, without even looking.
His brother stopped, confused, and slowly moved away.
Ceres watched in silence, with a strange tightness in her chest.
“Ceres... you’re misunderstanding,” Theo finally said, his voice heavy.
“Then explain,” she replied coldly.
Theo breathed, avoiding the penetrating gaze that seemed to want to devour his soul.
“It’s just... a side effect. From detention. Nothing more.”
Ceres stared at him for several seconds.
She knew from experience that everyone came out of detention different—some more submissive, others more unstable.
Each mind reacted to Mother Ceres in its own way.
Outwardly, she accepted the excuse with a slight nod, without arguing.
But inside, her intuition throbbed.
Deep down, very deep down, she knew Theo was hiding more than he was saying.
And sooner or later, she would find out.
Devour
“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
It was the third time she had repeated the mantra that night, already alone in the dormitory.
But unlike other times, the usual peace did not come.
Theo’s eyes were still on her—not only his eyes, but the memory of his presence, his closeness, his breathing beside hers.
Even lying face down, she could still feel the lingering sensation of that encounter, as though it had been branded into her skin.
And no matter how much she told herself that it was good—that Theo was also a child of Mother Ceres, that they were both devoured in the same way—something was wrong.
That afternoon in the courtyard, something had changed in him.
She had seen the crack, the spasm of doubt.
She had seen him strike his own head, like an animal trying to drive out an instinct.
And she could not forget.
Because her eyes, which had always hunted for souls throughout the city, felt that a shadow was growing inside his soul.
And it was not good.
She did not even know what to call it, and that made her restless.
Even calm frightened her.
And why wouldn’t it? Mother Ceres had raised them that way: always alert, even in peace.
From the first lessons on disassembling and assembling weapons in less than thirty seconds, from the simulated fields with paint bullets that hurt like real bullets, from the exercises for moving in darkness, for distrusting the enemy even when there was no enemy at all...
Ceres had always known, like everyone else, that they were not citizens of peace.
They were hostages to the truce.
Watchers of war.
Even if it was an internal war.
Even if it was a war to ensure that no one said aloud that there was a war.
A war with himself, like the one Theo seemed to be fighting now.
And as much as it hurt her to admit it, she did not feel sorry for him because of it.
Because Mother Ceres loved him.
And if Mother Ceres loved someone, devoured someone, it was because she deemed them worthy of being split in half and stitched back together.
“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
She closed her eyes and tried to push the doubts away, but inevitably the memory of that day at the parade returned like a perfume too heavy to bear.
[The original passage here contains explicit sexual content involving characters in a school-age setting and is omitted.]
“Because nothing had ever been like this before.”
“Nothing had ever been given to me for free.”
“There was always a test after pleasure. Always a thorn after the flowering field.”
Mother Ceres had taught her that from an early age: every harvest costs sweat. Every medal, scraped knees and dry eyes.
And even now, in the warmth of the memory of him beside her, a small shadow whispered that the peace might not last.
That the good feeling Theo gave her—the feeling of being devoured in a way that belonged only to him, different from the way Mother Ceres devoured her children—might be nothing more than a beautiful interval before the next storm.
Sometimes, in the moments when Theo overwhelmed her with anger and desire, she found herself thinking that he imagined Mother Ceres in her, simply because they shared the same name.
Perhaps it was revenge.
Perhaps it was delirium.
But there were moments—and she could feel it—when he did not see her as herself.
When, deep down, even while desiring her for who she was, he still dreamed of punishing Mother Ceres through her.
And the worst part: she did not care.
No matter how much it hurt.
No matter how much she knew that shadow might one day swallow him whole.
She did not mind being the intermediary between devotion and revolt.
Because, in the end, Mother Ceres always won.
And, in the end, they were both just more seeds crushed in the palm of her hand.
“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
It was the third time she had repeated the mantra that night, already alone in the dormitory.
But unlike other times, the usual peace did not come.
Theo’s eyes were still on her—and not only his eyes, but the memory of his hands, his skin, his breathing against hers.
Even now, lying face down, she could still feel the burning sensation left by his touch, as though she had been branded with a hot iron.
And no matter how much she told herself that it was good—that Theo was also a child of Mother Ceres, that they were both devoured in the same way—something was wrong.
That afternoon in the courtyard, something had changed in him.
She had seen the crack, the spasm of doubt.
She had seen him strike his own head, like an animal trying to drive out an instinct.
And she could not forget.
Because her eyes, which had always hunted for souls throughout the city, felt that a shadow was growing inside his soul.
And it was not good.
She did not even know what to call it, and that made her restless.
Even calm frightened her.
And why wouldn’t it? Mother Ceres had raised them that way: always alert, even in peace.
From the first lessons on disassembling and assembling weapons in less than thirty seconds, from the simulated fields with paint bullets that hurt like real bullets, from the exercises for moving in darkness, for distrusting the enemy even when there was no enemy at all...
Ceres had always known, like everyone else, that they were not citizens of peace.
They were hostages to the truce.
Watchers of war.
Even if it was an internal war.
Even if it was a war to ensure that no one said aloud that there was a war.
A war with himself, like the one Theo seemed to be fighting now.
And as much as it hurt her to admit it, she did not feel sorry for him because of it.
Because Mother Ceres loved him.
And if Mother Ceres loved someone, devoured someone, it was because she deemed them worthy of being split in half and stitched back together.
“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
She closed her eyes and tried to push the doubts away, but inevitably the memory of that day at the parade returned like a perfume too heavy to bear.
[The original passage here contains explicit sexual content involving characters in a school-age setting and is omitted.]
Because, in the end, Mother Ceres always won.
And, in the end, they were both just more seeds crushed in the palm of her hand.
“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
She murmured it once more, but this time she did not fully believe it.
“The world is constantly at war; peace is merely an accident.”
That was what they had always been told.
That was what she repeated silently, alone, lying in bed, staring at the dormitory ceiling, listening to footsteps echoing in the corridor outside.
That was what she had repeated for years, ever since the first time she read the poster at school.
And even so, she could not understand.
Why then... why are we cruelest precisely to those we love?
The question escaped her lips in a whisper, almost a confession.
It was a dangerous thought.
Almost a crime simply to think it—but Ceres could not avoid it.
Why does Mother, who devours us, devour us even more when we dare to be good?
Why did the city teach that vigilance begins inside one’s own chest?
Why did he—Theo, whom she loved as she had never dared love anyone—carry within her the impulse to hurt him, squeeze him, bend him until he broke, simply to prove that he still belonged?
And why did she feel that he, in turn, did the same—devouring her with anger, as though he wanted to punish Mother Ceres through her body?
They were good children.
Both of them.
Raised to fight invisible wars.
Raised to strike first, before someone could hurt them.
Raised to confuse love with devotion, and devotion with obedience.
Perhaps that was why they were like this.
Crueler, harder, colder—precisely toward those they loved.
Because, deep down, they did not know how to love any other way.
Ceres turned onto her side, hugging her pillow, her mind clogged with the memory of him in the courtyard, striking his own head, cursing himself like a traitor.
She had hated seeing that.
Hated it, because for an instant she had wanted to be the one to punish him.
And then she hated herself even more for feeling that way.
“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
The whisper escaped again, automatically.
She closed her eyes, trying to fall asleep, trying to convince herself that nothing had changed.
That it was only another test, as always.
That she was still in control.
That he would be too—sooner or later.
And then, at last, her breathing calmed.
And slowly, sleep carried her away.
In the dream, the city seemed too silent.
The sky was a heavy, motionless gray.
And there was the tower.
The immense, relentless silhouette, solitary on the horizon.
Watching over them all.
Like an eye that never blinked.
As if it could see straight through her.
As if it knew exactly what she was thinking—and was already deciding the price she would pay.
Even asleep, she felt her heart tighten.
And, even dreaming, she repeated one last time:
“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
But this time, her voice trembled slightly.
And the tower did not answer.
It simply remained there, quiet, staring back at her.
The following morning, the cold light of the courtyard seemed the same as always—neutral, immutable, impersonal.
Ceres stopped in the glass corridor, adjusted the cap of her uniform, and let her eyes wander toward him.
Theo was there.
As always.
In the same place where everything had begun, where she had seen him days before, involuntary spasms shaking his hands like a silent fever.
That time, he had been standing sideways to the tower, she remembered clearly.
It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but it said a lot...
Sideways to the tower—as if he maintained an intimate and uncomfortable relationship with it.
As if he feared it and desired it in equal measure.
As if his doubts belonged only to the two of them, a secret too heavy to share with anyone else.
But today was different.
Ceres took a moment to realize exactly what had changed.
Then she understood:
He had his back to the tower.
His entire body turned in the opposite direction.
Without the slightest ceremony, without even looking over his shoulder.
A trace of defiance?
Or simply exhaustion?
In that instant, with his hands in his pockets and his chin lowered, Theo seemed indifferent to the tower’s presence on the horizon.
As if it were nothing.
As if ignoring it were natural—but she knew it was not.
Nothing in Ceres was natural.
Nothing in Theo was indifferent.
Nothing there would ever be merely an accident.
And yet, he remained there.
Motionless, with his back to the tower.
As if the simple act of not looking at it were, by itself, an answer.
Or a message.
Or perhaps just another silent plea for help, impossible to speak aloud.
Ceres felt something tighten inside her.
As if her entire body, for an instant, heard an alarm no one else could hear.
And, for the first time, she was not sure whether Mother Ceres would approve of the way she was looking at him now.
Ana & Daime
At Mother Ceres’s school, where children enter at ten and leave at twenty to be devoured by the city, Ana had always been a star. Impetuous, unbearable, far too beautiful to be ignored—and far too stubborn to be easily loved. She was Ceres’s perfect rival in ornamental diving. The two hated each other with the same fervor that sometimes flickered like respect.
But no one, not even Ceres, affected Ana as much as Daime.
Daime.
The boy who, they said, would be the greatest flagball player of all time. The boy Mother Ceres was going to decorate with medals, capes, and speeches. Until the accident in Arcadia, until the paint bullets that were not just paint, until his muscles stopped responding and his body became trapped in that damned chair.
After that, he became something else.
The irreverent boy with the dirtiest mouth in the school.
The sadistic idiot who spoke the most uncomfortable truths as if he were spitting blood.
The guy who broke up with Ana not because he stopped liking her—but because he hated that she saw in him the same promise he could no longer see himself.
“I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me,” he said once, before turning his chair around and leaving.
Ana tried other bodies. She tried other kisses, including with girls, trying to convince herself that his arrogance could be replaced.
It couldn’t.
She still remembered the moments with him—the most shitty, the most embarrassing, the funniest.
He was incredibly tough, but underneath it, she knew, he had a good heart.
He simply did not know what to do with it.
She confronted him once in the courtyard. He, as always, sprawled in his chair, laughing like someone who had already seen the worst.
“You still love me, Daime. I know.”
“Go fuck yourself right in the middle of your asshole,” he replied, in that same unmistakable tone of someone who knew she was right.
Ana never forgot.
She never would.
Because that was what hurt about Daime: he had been trained never to make mistakes—and still, he had failed.
His limbs no longer obeyed him, but his mouth remained sharper than any blade.
She hated how he always seemed to be right.
And she loved him for exactly that.