The sun kisses my stage, draping the city in gold, but it is I who sets this place alight.
Before me, thousands gather, their gazes fixed, their bodies pressed together like pilgrims at the altar of divinity. My divinity. I let them take in the moment, the weight of my presence. I take my time stepping into the light. Let them ache for my words. Then, I extend my arms—a shepherd before his flock—and speak. The air turns to a militaristic silence, and then…
"My people!"
The force of their answering cheers ripples through the city walls, reverberating. The city tremors of a waking god. It is a beautiful thing—to see them, to feel them, to own them. I raise a single gloved hand, and silence falls as if I have snuffed the air from their lungs.
"Today, Eclipsara stands proud, as it has for centuries! Today, we do not just gather—we ascend! For today marks the beginning of the Shaman Festival, a hallowed tradition, a celebration of strength, of unity, of power!"
They answer as they should: a thunderous ovation, echoing through the hollow bones of this city.
"For as long as time, our people, my people, have stood against the withering tides of history. Against the schemes of the faithless, the ruin of lesser men that would have wrought upon us! And yet, we have not merely survived. We have prospered!"
Another cry, louder, a fever breaking into fire. I let it swell before cutting it with the sharp edge of my voice.
"Tell me, what is strength without vigilance? What is power… Without the will to defend it."
I pause. The silence is rich with anticipation. I let them feel it. Let them answer in their own minds. I lean forward, my tone sinks to a low, magnetic hush.
"There are those who would see our gates shattered. Who would gnaw at the roots of this great city like vermin in the walls of a temple."
The fear I have so carefully cultivated takes hold, wrapping itself around their throats like a gentle noose. They are listening. I let out a short, calculated sign. The weariness of a ruler who must bear the burdens of the world.
"The world beyond our walls is sick. Festering with those of weak will, the corrupt. It rots, drowning in its own failures, clinging to gods that neither hear nor care. And yet…"
I let my voice rise, strong and unwavering.
"Here is Eclipsara, we are not so weak as to bow to false idols. We are a nation of warriors, of scholars, as mothers and fathers, men and women who live above such ideas. We are kings in our own right. The strongest of bloodlines, the greatest of minds—we are the last bastion of true civilization!"
Applause erupts, a deafening wave of adoration. And now, they are primed.
I inhale deeply, savoring the moment I have just created, then gesture to the guards standing at the edge of the platform.
"But even within the halls of greatness, there are those who would betray us. Those who scurry in the dark, offering their souls to these gods unworthy of worship. And today…"
The applause dies instantly, replaced by the hush of a much heavier anticipation.
"Today, my friends, I bring you justice."
And with a flick of my wrist, I summon the condemned onto the stage.
Three men, bound and blindfolded, their gags soaked with spit and blood. They tremble—not just from the binding, but from the weight of the moment, from the inescapable knowledge of their captures' cruelty.
I step forward, slow, deliberate, reveling in the quite. The moment before the storm.
"These men," I continue, voice heavy with disgust, "are not like us. They are not brothers. They are parasites—vermin that worship false gods and plot against the very soil they walk upon."
Boos. Mocking. A ripple of disgust. The prisoners flinch at the sound. My smile widens. The response is perfect. The fear in their bodies is palpable, a trembling undercurrent against the vast, unwavering will of the people. One of them squirms, his breathing frantic beneath the gag, and for a moment, we feel him. My people, a second a pity, for me, the last flicker of hope struggling inside him.
How sad.
It will die here.
"But I am not a tyrant."
I turn to the crowd, spreading my arms wide like a magician revealing a trick, my golden cufflinks gleam under the light.
"I will not be their executioner. You will."
A sharp intake of breath from the audience. Shock, Anticipation, Desire. They balance on the edge of the moment, waiting for permission to fall.
"I am looking for heroes to save these men from their despair." I make the invitation with a knowing look. "Three volunteers. Step forward."
Like desperate rats they are, they come to my aid.
A woman, eyes burning with duty. A soldier, his face carved from stone. And a boy, barely out of childhood, yet he grips his fist so tightly his knuckles turn white.
Perfect.
The guards move with practiced efficiency, placing the ceremonial daggers in their hands—polished steel, simple, elegant. A ritual blade, for ritual sacrifice.
I place my palm on the boy's shoulder, my touch is gentle and fatherly. He stiffens beneath it, a fear takes him over that he mistakenly reads as courage. I can feel his pulse hammering, his hesitation and hunger fighting for dominance in his mind.
"Do not think of this as death, my child." My voice slithers, soothing, a whisper mean to comfort, to coil around his uncertainty like a vine choking the roots of a tree. "Think of it as justice. These men, no. These heathens, would not have spared your mother, your father, your friends. Do you understand?"
The boy nods. I make him.
"Good." I give the signal.
Three blades fall. Three heads roll.
For a moment, there is only silence. Then, the dam breaks under our weight. Roars of approval, a wave of euphoria. Screams triumph, as if they have won war itself, as if they had a role in carving justice into the bones of earth itself. They are mistaken. Some see that, as small cliques of people protest with their disapproval. Their voices drown tenfold to my followers.
The woman wipes her blade on her sleeve, proud. The soldier bows his head, duty fulfilled. The boy… the boy stares at his hands, still slick with blood, before dropping the knife. His breath shakes. His hands tremble. The head rolled to his feet, with the blindfold ripped by a prickly floor, and his pale eyes stared at the boy from hell. But the boy does not look away.
Good.
"Rejoice, my friends!" I extend my arms once more, the very image of benevolence. "You have just seen justice! And now…" I throw my hands in the air awaiting… "Let us celebrate!"
Voices erupt back to life. Music plays in widening the field. Laughter echoed among my walls. The smell of roasting meat. The bodies are dragged away. The bloodstains fade into the stone. The joy never wavers.
I watch them for a moment longer, letting it all settle into place like a great painting. A masterpiece of control, devotion, and order. I step back from the stage, smiling as the people swarm the festival stalls, as the city rejoices beneath my hand.
This is how power is maintained. Not through laws. Not through violence.
Through belief.
And in this city, the people believe in me.