Bab 3: Fear in the kingdom

The kingdom of Eclipsara, once vibrant with life and joy, now withered under a shroud of despair. Months stretched into an eternity of mourning, and as the days and nights blurred together, the people slowly came to terms with the absence of their beloved king. The warmth of his smile, the fairness of his rule, and the kindness that had once made the kingdom flourish were now nothing but fading memories, like a song half-remembered but still painful to recall.

At first, there were whispers of resistance, quiet murmurs in the market square or hushed voices in dimly lit homes. But Kane's rise to power was swift and unyielding, crushing any flicker of rebellion before it could grow into a flame. The people realized, reluctantly and with heavy hearts, that to resist was futile. Kane always got what he wanted, no matter the cost.

Under Kane's rule, fear became the new language of Eclipsara. The people walked with their heads down, their shoulders hunched, as if the weight of his tyranny physically pressed them to the ground. No one dared to meet his gaze; his eyes, cold and unrelenting, seemed to bore through flesh and into the soul, leaving nothing but dread in their wake.

Kane moved through the palace like a predator, his footsteps deliberate and heavy, each one echoing ominously through the grand, empty halls. He carried himself with an air of arrogance, his shoulders thrown back and his chin tilted upward, as if daring the world to challenge him. His sharp, angular features were perpetually twisted into a sneer, the corners of his lips curling upward in a way that sent chills through anyone who saw it. His laughter, loud and mirthless, often echoed in the throne room, a cruel reminder of his dominance.

In moments of drunken power, he would stagger through the banquet hall, his goblet sloshing over with wine. He would throw his arms wide, as if embracing his own tyranny, shouting proclamations that no one dared contradict. Servants scurried to clean up his mess, their hands trembling as they worked. They avoided his eyes, their faces pale and drawn, knowing that even the smallest mistake could unleash his wrath.

The people who lived under his rule carried fear in their very bones. Shopkeepers bowed their heads and lowered their eyes when soldiers passed by, their hands shaking as they offered goods in silent compliance. Parents gripped their children's hands tightly, pulling them close and whispering warnings to never speak out of turn. The streets, once lively with laughter and conversation, were now eerily quiet, save for the occasional barked orders of Kane's guards.

In the throne room, Kane lounged on the once-revered seat of the king as though it were a mere chair. He leaned back lazily, his legs spread wide and one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His movements were slow, almost deliberate, as if to remind everyone in his presence of his control. His eyes scanned the room with a mixture of boredom and disdain, daring anyone to defy him.

When he spoke, his voice was sharp and cutting, laced with a cruelty that made his words feel like daggers. "You think you deserve better?" he would scoff, his lips curling into that familiar sneer. "You deserve me. And you will learn to serve me." His words were like a death knell, a final blow to the hope that had once lingered in the hearts of the people.

The kingdom itself seemed to reflect its ruler's decay. The once-thriving markets were now sparse, the vibrant colors of fabrics and fruits replaced by muted tones and half-empty stalls. The castle, a symbol of prosperity and unity under the late king, felt cold and oppressive, its grand halls devoid of warmth and life. Even the sky seemed to mourn; the sun rarely broke through the clouds, leaving the land cloaked in a perpetual gray.

No one dared to challenge Kane. Fear had seeped into every corner of Eclipsara, rooting itself so deeply that it became a way of life. The people had learned to live under his rule, their movements subdued, their expressions blank. But beneath the surface, in the quiet moments when they were alone, their eyes betrayed them. The fleeting glances toward the horizon, the soft sighs of longing, the silent prayers whispered into the night—they all spoke of a kingdom that remembered what it had lost and wished, against all odds, for a savior.

The people of Eclipsara moved like shadows, their bodies hunched and their steps hesitant, as if the weight of Kane's rule had seeped into their very bones. The once-proud villagers, who used to walk with heads held high, now kept their gazes fixed to the ground, their faces blank masks hiding the storm of fear within. Even their breathing was shallow, as though afraid that the simple act of drawing attention could invoke Kane's wrath.

Parents, burdened with the knowledge of their helplessness, whispered lessons of survival into their children's ears. "Never look him in the eye," they would say, their voices trembling as they tucked their little ones into threadbare blankets. "Always keep quiet, always obey." Their hands, calloused and shaking, would smooth the children's hair, trying to hide their own despair. But their faces betrayed them—lines etched deeply around their mouths and eyes from the constant tension of living in fear. They wore their hopelessness like a second skin.

Children, once full of laughter and mischief, now played silently in the shadows, their movements cautious. Their eyes, far too wide and somber for their age, darted nervously at every sound. They mimicked the adults around them, their small shoulders stiff and their heads bowed, learning not joy but fear. At night, when the adults thought them asleep, some would clutch their knees to their chests and cry softly, the muffled sobs swallowed by the darkness of their homes.

Kane, meanwhile, indulged in his own depravity, leaving the kingdom unattended and spiraling deeper into his wickedness. He strode through the palace halls with a swagger that bordered on grotesque arrogance, his movements exaggerated and his footsteps loud, as if every step was a declaration of his power. His eyes gleamed with a dark, unholy light, the sharp angles of his face twisted into a perpetual sneer. He relished in the suffering of his people, his lips curling into a wolfish grin whenever he heard reports of their struggles.

When he spoke, his voice dripped with cruelty, each word laced with venom. "They're nothing but worms," he would mutter to himself, his fingers absently tracing the hilt of his sword as if itching for violence. "Let them squirm." His laughter, sharp and jagged, echoed through the halls like the sound of glass shattering—unnerving and devoid of any true mirth.

In his drunken stupor, Kane often stumbled to the throne, collapsing into it with a graceless sprawl. His once-polished armor hung loosely on his frame, now tarnished and scratched from neglect. He would throw his head back, a goblet of wine sloshing in his hand, and laugh at his own hollow jokes. His lips, stained with drink, would curl into an expression of mockery even as his bloodshot eyes betrayed a growing emptiness. He was consumed by the evil within him, a shell of a man driven only by his lust for power and his need to see others suffer.

The kingdom itself reflected his neglect. The roads, once well-kept, were now cracked and overgrown with weeds. The fields, untended and barren, yielded little harvest, and the markets, once vibrant with trade, had dwindled into a few desperate stalls. The people shuffled through these desolate streets like ghosts, their expressions devoid of hope. Yet in their quietest moments—behind closed doors or under the cover of night—they whispered prayers, not with faith but with the faintest, most fragile hope that something, someone, might one day free them.

The air was thick with despair, but beneath it, a quiet resentment simmered, unspoken and buried deep. Though the people no longer believed in salvation, their weary eyes occasionally flicked toward the horizon. And in those fleeting moments, their faces would soften just slightly, their lips tightening with the unspoken longing for a better tomorrow—a tomorrow that seemed as distant as the stars. Kane's tyranny had taught them fear, but fear, they realized, was also a seed—a seed that, under the right conditions, might one day grow into defiance.