AYLA MARIN

Magazines are normal, although we usually only have two a year. I remember being woken up in the morning, with shouts and orders from security officers, entering our house, and searching everything we had, as if we lived to steal things from the lucky ones in each sector. I returned home, intending to take my family to the hidden accommodation, however, while we were packing our bags, our house was invaded by soldiers at the behest of the king. Downstairs, my mother was waiting. But her eyes focus on me. She shakes her head, telling me not to go down, pleading with me to hide. To my surprise, she doesn't seem mad or disappointed in me. On the contrary, her look is even soft. Two agents wait at the door, guns at their hips. I've seen both of them at the village outpost, but there's a third figure: a young woman in red with a tricolor insignia on her chest. A royal servant, who serves the king. I realize that this is not going to be your usual magazine. My mother submits herself to the