Revolutions

152 - Legido

There's no dawn here today. Just the dim, reluctant light of a day that doesn't want to begin. The sky is still scorched, tinged with smoke that curls low, clutching at the broken ground. The stones, the twisted ruins, the mutilated bodies, all reek of something singed beyond recognition. Everything looks dull and drained of color, as if the city has been bled dry.

It wasn't long ago that this city teetered on the edge, battered by siege. Its walls were shuddering, one breath away from crumbling into nothing. But now, the stillness hanging over this place feels much, much worse.

You'd heard legends, the myths. But legends are just stories, idle tales shared to break up the monotony of long days in the fields. You thought you'd seen power before, too—the kind that shakes foundations, that makes men tremble. But what occurred the day before? That was something else. You're not even sure your mind is capable of wrapping around it, like trying to trap a river in your hands. How do you process the sight of such a being reducing an army of fire-wielding fanatics to nothing, as if they were just a patch of weeds He decided to torch from the garden? You can't.

So instead, your mind runs in circles, trying to make sense of it. Maybe there's comfort in denial, in clinging to the possibility that it was all just a trick of the light, a collective hallucination. But no—the ground still smolders beneath your feet, and you can almost taste the ash that still drifts in the air around you. Whatever you saw wasn't some fevered mirage. It was power—the kind that snaps worlds in half, that makes reality feel flimsy, as thin and useless as a damp sheet of paper.

You move through the deteriorating streets, careful not to trip over debris—bits of clay, terracotta tile, shattered stone, the occasional shard of bone that crunches underfoot. Piles of scorched rubble form strange, twisted shapes in the morning sun, almost like faces caught in a silent scream. For a moment, you imagine the ground itself is watching, bearing witness to this violent transformation.

They've already begun renaming this place. "Xiatlazán" is what they're calling it. "Xiatli's domain" in your native tongue. You scoff at the lack of originality and creativity. It's not a far departure from the long-abandoned colony, Xiatlidar. Yet this place feels just as cursed.

Some of the Legido gather around the remnants of the city square. They bow their heads in reverence, hands outstretched, as if touching the very land might bring them closer to His power. You see them kneel, murmuring prayers that you've only ever heard whispered in the homeland. But here, they are fervently shouted like a rallying cry. They wail, begging for His blessing. It's reverence that borders on something darker—a submission to an all-consuming force. They call Him "Savior," "Fire-Bearer," and other names that taste wrong in your mouth. It's as if His victory has ignited a fervor in them, a hunger to offer something more than loyalty, something far greater and deeper than worship.

Others linger at the edges, watching with hollow eyes, their gazes avoiding the smoldering piles of ash and bones. They shuffle nervously, some glancing up at the hazy sky as if it might offer an escape. These people are silent, stiff. To them, Xiatli is no Savior. He is something darker, more inevitable. A force that even death cannot defy. They don't bow. They don't chant. They stay on the fringes, worried that, if they get any closer, He would consume them, perish them as he did the invaders. You wonder how long they'll last here.

The line between loyalty and terror blurs, bleeding into a deep reverence that feels both sacred and profane. You wonder how many here truly believe in Him and how many are pretending, hoping to blend in, to avoid drawing the attention of those who would call them traitors. There's a sick sense that something beyond mortal loyalty is growing here, like a poison slowly seeping into one's veins.

A woman steps forward, her red and blue dress in tatters, and her face streaked with ash. Her hands are clasped tightly as she begins to chant. Her words are foreign to you, speaking in some language you don't recognize. But the others join her, their voices rising until they fill the air with a cadence that's unsettling in its unity. They chant His name as if each repetition brings them closer to Him, closer to the power that razed the enemies in a single breath.