Revolutions

147 - Legido

You stand at the edge of what remains of this place. The city feels like a body picked clean by scavengers. Ruins that were once homes, places of worship, or maybe palaces are now reduced to rubble beneath the relentless march of the Legido settlers. The smell of ash clings to everything, mixing with sweat, dirt, and blood. You don't know what this place is called, but that doesn't seem to matter anymore—it belongs to the Legido now. What's left of the people who lived here are corralled into makeshift pens, herded like livestock, working under the crack of whips.

The city feels hollow, emptied of itself. The streets that once pulsed with voices—markets filled with the scent of roasting maize and music carried on the breeze—now lie suffocated beneath the oppression of the occupation. The once-vibrant and polished stones beneath your feet are dulled, chipped under the boots of soldiers who track mud and blood wherever they tread. Even the light here seems muted, as if the sky itself is mourning what the city has become.

Everywhere you look, the native villagers are bent to the will of their conquerors. Their skin smeared with dirt, men and women haul timber and stone under the whip of Legido overseers. Children no older than a handful of years struggle to drag water from what's left of the city's aqueducts.

Small acts of resistance spark up here and there. Yet they're little more than embers swallowed by the dark. A woman presses a piece of bread into a child's hand, nervously looking over her shoulder as she does. But this act comes at a price. A soldier catches the woman giving bread, shouts vulgar things at her. The whip sings, sharp, abrupt. Her scream echoes down the street. And then silence rushes in, swallowing the sound, eager to pretend it never broke the night.

Criato stands at the center of it all, impatiently barking orders. His soldiers hurriedly drag logs and set up tents around him. He moves through the ruins of the city as if every stone was laid for his personal use. Any structure not used to house a Legido have been turned into armories—what were once homes are now storage for weapons and supplies. Criato's presence is a constant torrent, always moving, always yelling. He doesn't care if the work is done well, just that it is done now.

In contrast, Ulloa is quieter, more deliberate. He watches the people with a calculating gaze, walking slowly through the calamity and taking stock. He has a ledger in hand, carefully marking which indigenous artisans or skilled workers are worth keeping and which ones can be sent to the mines or left to die under the sun. It's not personal to Ulloa. It's just the way of things.

Xiatli's presence looms over everything, heavy and cold as iron. He moves through the occupied city like a shadow given shape. The amulet around his neck gleams faintly. There's a deep, unnatural glow to it, like embers smoldering beneath coal.

When He passes, conversations falter. The natives avoid his gaze, their faces falling into blank masks when He drifts by them. The soldiers shift uneasily, their hands drifting to the hilts of their swords or muskets without realizing it. The birds refuse to sing. The very air seems to tighten around Him. Even Criato, who is usually so brash, noticeably lowers his voice when Xiatli walks by.

You glance at Him from a distance, and something about the way He moves unsettles you. It's not just the amulet, though its unnatural glow tugs at your eyes, drawing them back even when you try to look away. It's deeper than that. It's as if the city itself knows He doesn't belong here. It doesn't welcome Him; it endures Him, like a curse laid down on soil that was once sacred. He's like a blade pressed into flesh, an intrusion that can only end in blood.

You've grown numb to the cruelty. It happened so gradually, you didn't even notice the shift, like calluses thickening over the hands of a farmer. Turning off the part of yourself that should have felt disgusted was easier than you ever imagined—too easy, really. At first, the guilt flared up like a hot coal buried under your ribs, something you could ignore for a while, but never truly extinguish. Now it's more like a dull ache, a bruise you press on out of habit, as if testing to see if you're still capable of feeling anything at all. It's there, somewhere beneath the surface, but it never rises high enough to stop you from following orders.