In a foreign soil, our sorrows root,
A bitter branch, a poisoned fruits,
The soil that burns, the chains that bites,
We are the shadow of lost lights.
Our mothers weep in silent plea,
For children they will never see.
The wind carries a mournful sound,
A home we seek on cursed ground.
We wail for all that has been lost,
For freedom's long and heavy cost.
Our agony, a river wide,
Where ghosts of our own souls reside
The sun bore witness to the relentless suffering that echoed throughout the vast Vylonia empire. An orchestra of agony filled the air – the crack of whips, the clang of chains, and the cries of the enslaved. Each sound wove a grim tapestry of the daily existence for those trapped within the empire's unyielding grasp
In every corner, people labored against their will, their bodies pushed beyond exhaustion, their spirits tested by ceaseless torment. No part of the empire remained untouched by the forced march of their weary footsteps, their shackles a constant reminder of their plight.
At the blazing forges, men hammered out weapons, their faces marred by sweat and soot. Among them, an old man struggled to keep up, his gnarled hands trembling. A single misstep sent him crashing to the searing hot steel, and a heart-wrenching scream escaped his lips, mingling with the cacophony of the forge.
A menacing taskmaster loomed over him, whip in hand. "Get up!" he roared, his voice echoing through the chaos. With a whimper, the old man forced himself back to his feet, his body quivering as he returned to his work
In another part of the empire, men were yoked together like beasts of burden, their flesh turned and burdened as they pulled heavy carts under the relentless lash of their masters' whips. Their backs bore the bitter artwork of countless lashes, each painful stripe etching a tale of misery into their flesh
In the shadow of a colossal, unfinished golden statue—a monument erected to honor Emperor Absalom of Vylonia—the resplendent palace towered over the desolate landscape. The opulence within stood in stark contrast to the bleak suffering that unfolded beyond its walls.
In the throne room, Emperor Absalom, donning a golden crown, stood observing the slaves' unending toil through a grand, arched window. His wife, Queen Sariel, approached with a rustle of silk, her voice cutting through the stillness. "My love," she murmured, laying a gentle hand upon his shoulder.
Turning to face her, Absalom's lips curved into a tender smile. "If it isn't my beautiful queen," he replied, his words sealed with a kiss. "What brings you here?"
Queen Sariel's face mirrored a mixture of admiration and worry. "I came to see you, Absalom," she confessed, her gaze fixed upon him. "But, my heart is heavy. It has been fourteen years since the nameless, blind old man foretold the downfall of Vylonia. Does this not concern you?"
A cacophony of laughter erupted from Absalom, his amusement echoing through the chamber, as he dismissed her fears. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he reassured her, "My queen, Vylonia has stood as an unrivaled empire for five centuries. You need not worry. Nothing will happen to our empire."
As Queen Sariel opened her mouth to reply, the throne room doors swung open, revealing a kneeling guard. "Your Majesty, you summoned me?"
Absalom's voice hardened. "By my order, the slaves will produce twice as much as before. This command takes effect tomorrow. Go!"
The guard bowed before departing, and the heavy doors closed once more. A shared chuckle filled the air, its sinister undertones a testament to the power-hungry nature of Vylonia's rulers.