The two guards stood at the edge of the narrow path, playing a crude game of chance — hearts laid bare, laughter hollow and tired. The loser would be struck with a wooden stick or shoved aside, as men often did when the day's burden grew too heavy to bear.In the dim evening beneath the vast ceiling of the cavern, the sounds of the settlement drifted softly — muffled voices, frayed laughter fading into silence, leaving only one sound behind: the voice of poverty.
This time, the loser slipped and fell before the door of Normo's hut. A thick silence settled over the place until Aranith appeared in the doorway. She paused, studying the scene, and asked in a sharp yet measured tone:"Is Torg inside?"
The guards nodded. Without waiting for permission, she knocked once and entered. The wooden door was worn thin with age, and the shadows inside hung heavy like a shroud.At the center of the room sat Torg, still and unreadable, as though braced for unwelcome news.Aranith lit a small flame; its light rose and danced, revealing weary faces, hands blackened by work, and dried streaks of blood under the nails. Then she sat across from him — close enough to share the same breath, yet distant as if separated by time itself.
She looked at him for a long while before speaking in a voice low and burdened:"My husband died months ago."
Torg raised his eyes to her, murmuring, "I'm sorry."
She shook her head slowly, the words too small to carry the weight of her grief."It's all right," she whispered. "I've moved past it. It was hard, painful… but nothing lasts here." Then, with a bitter swiftness, she asked,"Why are you here, Torg? After all this time… did you come only to sit beside your brother's grave?"
Torg was silent for a moment before replying, his tone flat yet firm:"I came to unite the villages — for the war to come."
Aranith drew in a sharp breath, as though the words themselves summoned an ancient dread."You know the odds," she said softly. "You know how easily we could lose."
"So what?" Torg's voice cut through the air like iron. "Shall we wait for the King's armies to burn us alive without lifting a hand? If we must fall, let it be while fighting. Even if it's our last stand — we must try."
His words hung between them, trembling in the still air.Aranith lowered her gaze, her voice now a whisper laced with fear."What if submission to Paradise and the Church is what keeps us alive? Perhaps our place here — beneath the world — is the reason we still exist. Maybe their walls above… protect us, not imprison us."
Torg turned toward her, eyes narrowing like storm clouds gathering."Protect us?" he repeated, the word laced with scorn. "They've condemned us to starve. You've seen it — our people dying in the dark. How is famine a shield? Why should their comfort above demand our suffering below? What sin justifies their paradise?"
She said nothing. Her thoughts drifted to the faces of the children she'd passed — laughter fading between hunger's teeth."And how will you convince them?" she asked quietly. "This village has no leader now… no one to believe in a war that might end them all."
Torg's eyes hardened with faith carved from despair."Then I'll find those who still have courage. Those who will stand beside me. If none remain… I'll go alone."
Something fell outside — a faint clatter, like a cup tipping over or a hand brushing a sack. They both turned toward the window, but the darkness beyond revealed nothing. The cavern swallowed every sound.
Moments later, a heavy knock struck the door. A voice from the main street called for them — the council demanded their presence.
Torg and Aranith exchanged a single look — a mix of resignation and resolve — before stepping into the unknown.
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It is said we were born in darkness — not to fear it, but to learn how to live within it.We are the children of the Great Cavern, born beneath a ceiling that never changes — a stony sky held by pillars as old as mountains, stretching from the earth to the unseen.Here, in the Buried Lands, we walk through walls of cold stone, as if treading through the world's forgotten memory.
We have always dreamed of leaving, of seeing the sky the old books spoke of — that endless blue untouched by night except when the stars chose to sleep.We dreamed of the sea, of its breath on our faces, of walking on warm soil beneath a living sun.
And yet… we never learned to hate this place.How could we hate the earth that birthed us, that has kept our names and our cries within its veins?
Here, we were born. Here, we built our small dreams against the weight of despair.Here, as children, we ran through the narrow alleys that to us were streets wide and full of wonder.Here, we found laughter — fleeting but real — and tears when friends vanished into the dark forever.Here, we learned that life can be merciless, yet it does not stop; that hunger may devour the body, but never the soul.
We are the children of shadow — we carry our light within.It's said we were exiled from the surface ages ago, cursed to dwell below for sins long forgotten.They say the heavens shut their gates against us, and the Paradise above never forgave.But among us, some still believe the world above remembers — and waits for us to knock once more.
The ceiling above is our dream and our torment.From afar it looks like a frozen ocean — vast and unmoving — yet we know beyond it lies infinity.And the pillars that hold it remind us of our own endurance; for like them, we've held the weight of the world upon our backs for centuries… and still we stand.
We know the truth — this place is not our heaven, but our prison.Still, we pretend to forget, just enough to keep living, laughing, loving, holding on to the scraps of what makes us human.We cover the truth as we cover old wounds — not to erase them, but to stop the bleeding.
And yet, none among us have stopped dreaming.Some still lift their heads toward the stone sky and whisper:"One day… we will see the light."
We may not live to reach it,but it is enough to feel it —to carry its image within us,so that one day, perhaps,a child born from our dustwill walk beneath a sky without darkness —a world without hunger,without sickness,without shadow.
Beneath the heavens, above the restless earth, a red dragon appeared — vast as a mountain, terrible as wrath itself.Its wings stretched across the horizon, tearing clouds apart, painting the sky in the color of blood.Its roar split the air like thunder.
Below, a small city stirred — stone houses, busy markets, laughter of children, women hanging their laundry, men readying for an ordinary day that would be their last.
The dragon hovered above, eyes blazing like twin embers, gazing down as death gazes upon its prey.When its shadow swallowed the city, screams rose — but there was no time to flee.
It opened its massive jaws, unleashing fire as if drawn from the heart of hell — red and black tongues of flame twisting like demons rejoicing in ruin.The ground began to tremble, violent quakes shaking the foundations — as if the earth itself joined the dragon's vengeance.Buildings crumbled, streets split open, and the city fell into itself — a vast crater of smoke and ash devouring all that once was.
In a single heartbeat, the fire consumed everything.Houses turned to dust, markets vanished, and the screams of women and the cries of children merged with the thunder of collapsing stone — until silence reigned, heavy and absolute.
The dragon circled above the ashes, exhaling flames as if proclaiming victory over the frail race below.Then it roared one final time — a sound that tore through the clouds and made the far mountains tremble — before vanishing into the high sky, leaving behind only a scar upon the earth…a hollow grave where a city once stood, and memories that smoldered long after the fire died.