Date: 1611
Time: 11:00 a.m.
On a radiant morning, Eastern Erinos sparkled beneath a sky painted with puffs of swollen white clouds, like floating balls of cotton. The sun, a suspended golden disc, flooded the land with a harsh torrent of light, illuminating the details of fertile ground groaning under the weight of bloody conflicts, prolonged wars of attrition, and the suffocating grip of poverty.On a radiant morning, Eastern Erinos sparkled beneath a sky painted with puffs of swollen white clouds, like floating balls of cotton. The sun, a suspended golden disc, flooded the land with a harsh torrent of light, illuminating the details of fertile ground groaning under the weight of bloody conflicts, prolonged wars of attrition, and the suffocating grip of poverty.
It was the National Day of Eastern Erinus, and the kingdom's capital buzzed like a colossal beehive. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, fresh bread, and horse sweat, mingled with the lingering tang of distant gunpowder that had not yet fully left the atmosphere.
Amid the clamorous celebrations—straining to conceal the fragility of reality—the blaring brass music of military bands rose high, playing anthems of hollow glory. Acrobat festivals spread their vivid colors across the main squares, while massive warhorses, adorned with gold trappings and finely crafted leather, surrounded the carriage of the king, the queen, and their son in a lavish display of power and wealth. Everything screamed opulence, while in the back alleys, hunger took root.
Far from the glare of the spectacle, a frail young man of eighteen walked slowly. His name was Petra. His face was pale and thin, his hands roughened by backbreaking labor that never truly found him a place, and his eyes carried a mixture of despair and merciless hunger. His clothes were tattered—brown rags, worn through and barely covering his slender body. He drifted along the edge of the crowd, stumbling gently, searching for anything to fill the burning void in his stomach… a scrap of food, perhaps, or a lost gold coin, even if worn and old.
Suddenly, his exhausted eyes stopped their random scanning and fixed on a glimmering point on the trampled ground. A small pouch of thick cloth, heavy, full.
Petra (in a low voice, trembling like a whisper amid the day's clamor, his stunned gaze holding its breath):
"G… gold?… Gold!!"
He lunges for the pouch, gripping it with such force he nearly crushes the fabric, as if afraid the dream might vanish between his fingers. He turns slowly, trying to melt into the crowd lost in celebration—only to be met by a massive shadow casting its chill over him. A huge royal soldier stands behind him like a solid wall, the emblem of the royal family gleaming on his polished armor, his hand clamped brutally on Petra's shoulder.
Petra (his voice frightened and unsteady, echoing with shock):
"What?! What did I do?!"
The Soldier (his voice deep and harsh as iron):
"Silence! Inform Queen Bervdes that we have found the gold—and the one who took it."
Petra (his body shaking like a stalk of wheat in the wind, blood freezing in his veins):
"The… the Queen's gold?! I didn't know! I swear… I—I'm sorry!!"
The Soldier (dragging him violently, indifferent to his pleas):
"Say that to the Queen yourself, boy."
Petra is hauled through the celebrating crowds, who look at him with cold indifference or disgust. He is brought before the royal platform, where the overwhelming splendor makes him dizzy. He stands before the Queen, terrified, his throat dry, as the glare of gold and royal silk stings eyes accustomed only to darkness. Soldiers surround him like wolves, and the soldier announces loudly:
Royal Soldier:
"This is the one who stole the gold, Your Majesty."
Petra (his voice broken, struggling to sound sincere beyond his fear):
"N-no, I didn't steal it! I just found it on the ground and picked it up—I meant no harm!"
Queen Bervdes's eyes widen for a fleeting moment when her gaze falls upon Petra. Beside her stands her young son, Arsh, his angelic face marred by a stain of tears and revulsion. He looks at Petra with cold contempt, as if staring at a filthy animal.
The Queen (thinking silently, one eyebrow slightly raised):
"Who is this…?"
She regains her composure and takes the pouch from the soldier, handing it to her son, who clutches it tightly. She speaks in a loud, velvety voice meant for the audience, not the accused:
Queen Bervdes:
"Take the gold, my son. It has returned to you—do not be afraid. Do not cry…"
(She strokes his head with royal calm, while Arsh's eyes remain hooked onto Petra like barbs, a final tear sliding down his angry cheek.)
Then her tone shifts, her eyes igniting with royal wrath:
Queen Bervdes:
"Imprison him! In the prison reserved for royal family cases!"
Petra (collapsing to the ground, as if the words struck him with a blow):
"W… what?! The worst prison?! Where is the court?! Where is justice?! Most of us are poor because of the wars, and you only grow greedier without helping anyone!"
Queen Bervdes (her eyes ablaze with fury, nearly spitting sparks):
"I was going to sentence you to only three months… but now, a full year! You dare interfere in the affairs of the royal family? In the great war of Eastern Erinus? You are nothing—a weak pauper, a stray dog in the streets!"
Petra (his fear giving way to the rage of a humiliated poor man; his voice quivering between bitter tears and raw fury):
"I'm poor… and a dog?! What about the thousands in the streets?! If there's anything that makes me a dog—or any animal—it's because of you and your unjust rule! You are the ones who split this state apart with wars and greed, you—"
(The sound of a powerful, thunderous punch cuts off his scorching words. The soldier's fist ends his speech.)
Queen Bervdes (coldly, as if ending a tedious conversation):
"Well done, soldier… take him to prison."
(Then she whispers into her son's ear, who trembles slightly as she wipes his tears with feigned tenderness.)
Queen Bervdes:
"Pay no attention to his words. He is a thief, my son. Take the gold and buy whatever you wish."
Her son, Arsh (wiping his tears with his small arm, stubbornness returning to his voice):
"Alright, Mother."
(On the way to the prison, two soldiers drag Petra's half-conscious body through the dark back alleys. They speak to one another in low, conspiratorial tones.)
Royal Soldier 1 (a sly smile creasing his mouth):
"The plan worked, my friend!"
(He embraces him cautiously, then whispers, barely audible, laced with suppressed tension.)
"If the Queen had discovered that we were the ones who let the gold fall from her son, we'd be among the dead by now."
Royal Soldier 2 (wiping the sweat from his brow, an old fear lingering):
"When I saw the pouch in his back pocket, I couldn't resist the idea. But when the boy cried and ran to his mother looking for it, I was terrified… Thank God this poor wretch picked it up."
Royal Soldier 1 (scoffing):
"And what if no one had picked it up?!"
(They both laugh quietly, a wicked laugh hiding deep-rooted cowardice, as Petra's body sways between their hands.)
(After a long distance beneath the scorching midday sun, they reach their destination. Petra is still unconscious, his face pressed into the dirt. He awakens suddenly to the sound of a kick.)
Royal Soldier (commanding):
"Up. Get up… we've arrived."
Petra opens his eyes heavily, his blurred vision clinging to—
—a massive black gate, cloaked in rust and darkness, like the mouth of a giant devouring light and hope.