the story of the children, not of the witches who lived, but of those who were burned. their revenge continues on. the flame held by the cracked torch passes along the steps of a downward staircase; with a fire that holds the history of death, it is alight with the inferno of the sun, alight with anger. versus the children born with the world in the palms of their hands, lapping from the water of greed, the honey of their ancestors' sins pinched between their thumb and forefinger. the sweet taste of gold covers the bitter taste of blood on their hands. the story of lovers who's tale begins with a war.