The air in Tlangthar was heavy with anticipation as the sun cast its early light across the hills. Each hilltop square—the gathering place for the advisors' districts—was alive with murmurs and tense conversations. Families, traders, and warriors gathered, their expressions a mixture of worry and determination. Today, the advisors would address the people directly, breaking the silence around the events that had transpired.
Zakop stood at the center of his square, his advisors flanking him. The platform was simple but elevated, ensuring his voice would carry. He scanned the crowd, noting the familiar faces of those who had weathered years of hardship under the Empire's rule. There was an unspoken unity in their presence, their silence an acknowledgment of the gravity of the moment.
Zakop raised a hand, and the murmurs ceased.
"People of Tlangthar," he began, his voice steady but weighted. "I stand before you with news that will shape our future. The Empire's envoy, Captain Rhabut, has been killed, along with his guards. The council acted decisively, for his demands were an affront to our dignity, our families, and our very humanity."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, but they quickly gave way to grim nods and murmurs of approval. Zakop continued, his tone unwavering.
"Captain Rhabut demanded a hundred of our women to be given to him and his guards for their…entertainment. He demanded our wives, even the leaders themselves, as part of his tribute. When we refused, he threatened to execute dozens in this very square. His arrogance and cruelty left us no choice."
The crowd erupted in anger, voices rising in shared outrage. Zakop held up his hand again, and the square quieted once more.
"This act of defiance was not taken lightly," Zakop said. "But understand this: the Empire has harassed us, demeaned us, and exploited us for as long as we can remember. They have forgotten our veterans, our sacrifices, and our people. This wound they have inflicted upon Xiaxo will not be ignored."
Pupi stepped forward, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. "Our decision to strike was not just for vengeance but for survival. The Empire would have continued their abuses, unchecked and unchallenged. Today, we declare that we are no longer subjects to their whims. We are Xiaxoan. And we will stand together."
The crowd erupted in cheers, fists raised in solidarity. For the first time in years, they felt the stirrings of a united purpose. The pain of the past had not been forgotten, but now it fueled their resolve.
As the cheers subsided, a figure emerged from the edge of the square. The Bishop of Tlangthar, resplendent in his ceremonial robes, ascended the platform. His presence silenced the crowd once more. Though he represented the Dysno Church—an institution entwined with the Empire—he was also Xiaxoan by birth, and his loyalty had long been questioned.
The Bishop raised his hands, his voice gentle but firm. "My people," he began, "I come to you not as a representative of the Church, but as a son of Xiaxo. I have heard your cries, and I have seen your suffering. What the Empire has done to us is unforgivable."
He paused, his voice breaking slightly. "I ask your forgiveness. Not in the name of the Church, but as a man who has stood complicit in their shadow. Today, I vow to sever our ties with the Central Dysno. I will rebuild our faith from its very foundations, free from their control. We will reclaim our spiritual identity, as we reclaim our land and our dignity."
The crowd was silent for a moment, then broke into applause. The Bishop's words, though unexpected, struck a chord. Even those who distrusted him could see the sincerity in his eyes.
On the fringes of the crowd, two scholars observed the proceedings. Tyrs and Mynta, twin sisters known for their fierce debates and sharp intellect, stood with their arms crossed, their expressions unreadable.
"What do you think?" Mynta asked, her voice laced with curiosity.
Tyrs smirked. "About the Bishop or the rebellion?"
"Both."
Tyrs considered for a moment. "The Bishop's move is smart. He's aligning himself with the people, distancing himself from the Empire. But his words mean little without action. As for the rebellion…it was inevitable. The Empire's grip has been tightening for decades. Something had to give."
Mynta nodded, her gaze fixed on the platform. "True. But the real challenge lies ahead. Decolonizing isn't just about cutting ties with the Empire or reclaiming rituals. It's about reshaping how we see ourselves, how we understand our history and our magic."
Tyrs raised an eyebrow. "You're talking about a reclamation of identity. That's…painful. People will have to confront truths they've ignored for generations. It's easier to live under the illusion of safety."
"But necessary," Mynta countered. "If we're to build a future, we need to reclaim the past. Magic is a part of that. The Empire's Dysno stripped us of our understanding of Sinlung, of the connection we once upheld. Reclaiming that will be as much about philosophy as it is about power. We may even forge better approaches to Magic and Reality as well, the potential is limitless."
Tyrs chuckled. "Always the idealist, not as a derogatory. But you're right. And speaking of reclaiming, shouldn't we check on our nephew? Larin's been diving headfirst into this new world of magic. I'd like to see where he's heading."
Mynta grinned. "Let's go. Maybe we'll learn something from him."
The sisters turned, their forms shimmering faintly as they cast a cloaking spell. Their figures blurred, folding into the shadows, leaving the square as if the air itself had swallowed them. Around them, the crowd remained oblivious, their focus on the leaders above. But a subtle shift in the air lingered, a reminder that Xiaxo's scholars and visionaries were already at work, shaping the path ahead.