The sound of the whips was the true heartbeat of the realm. It was a dry, snapping crack that echoed from the quarry pits to the shadowed black alleys of the capital, a constant reminder of the price of idleness. Here, the very great avenue stones of grand avenues were polished not by time, but by the desperate, hurried feet of people trying to avoid the punishment they had not yet earned. Buildings of dark, severe granite scraped against a sky that felt perpetually bruised and every window was a cold, blind eye turned away from the suffering below.
This was the nature of the country—a vast, beautiful land choked and corrupted by the malice that now ruled it. This vast, broken domain, where hope was a foolish luxury and fear was the only currency, was known by all as Dormetheus.
The seat of its misery was the formidable Black Keep, home to King Zhilin Dormetheus. Zhilin did not govern with a philosophy; he ruled with a perpetual, malignant scorn. His power was absolute, ensuring that every harvest, every skilled hand, and every living soul was merely fodder for his insatiable greed and arbitrary whims.
Keeping the common people in this state of perpetual terror were the Nobles. Gilded in stolen wealth and protected by the King's cruel favor, these tyrants were given free license to inflict whatever casual horror they desired. It was a kingdom where standing up, speaking out, or even accidentally meeting the gaze of a noble was an act of treason punishable by immediate death, reinforcing the cold truth: in Dormetheus, the right to live was a privilege, not a guarantee.