A strong hum of energy and excitement could be felt. A festive celebration was held once every ten years called KIA in memory of their goddess, who was given the ultimate power and used it to protect and fight for her people in her prime. 

On this day, necromancers were forbidden to use their powers for even the slightest of things. Everything was to be done manually without the consequence of going against it, which was a painful death.

People talked, flirted, kissed, and danced to the Hospiko spilling out from the violoncello, harp, and lyre. The synergies expertly created the tone, and the athletes produced sweet melodies by performing on the aulos.

The KIA was a gathering consisting of loads of food packed at respective places. Ninos were running around, and the teenagers were busy eyeballing one another. Visitors get cornered by the papou, who welcomes them by presenting the person with a strip of cotton called "Hida.”

They treated the visitors with complete kindness, respect, and generosity. They slowly grilled and cooked hog roasts under the midnight moon's light. 

Suddenly, the galloping and whining of horses could be heard, and dust rose from the surface, disrupting the joyous celebration. The chariot of horses (Triga and Quadriga) was driven by the charioteers and swordsmen in armor, who were on the horses while holding their swords high above their heads.

The moon reflected through the swords, and shiny shadows glittered on the ground. Swinging and hitting of swords sounded in the once joyous and serene atmosphere.

“Protect the land of our birth.” Someone shouted in the large crowd. 

The firing of poisonous arrows sent his victims to a slow death. The smell of burning grass huts, slitting throats with the aid of their swords, axes, and other killing weapons. Crises of children and shouts of women who were trying to protect and hide their children could be heard. 
 

Whisper Of The Veil

Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each inhale a painful reminder of her frailty, and the metallic taste of blood clung to her tongue like an iron curse. Her body trembled uncontrollably, the effort to draw in the air almost as excruciating as the wounds carved into her skin. Her wrists ached from the relentless struggle, raw and inflamed beneath the unforgiving grip of hands that knew no mercy. Each twist of her limbs sent waves of agony coursing through her, but still, she fought. 


Her tattered clothes clung weakly to her frame, threads hanging in tatters like the remnants of her dignity, torn and shredded in cruel amusement. Once, they had fit her body with care, a shield against the world. Now, they served only as a cruel mockery of what she had been—a symbol of everything she had lost. She tried to pull them together, as if by force of will, but the fabric gave way further with every desperate move. 


The Devil's Mercy