The Isle of Shadows,
The Moon Isle sprawled vast and wild, a realm of ancient trees and whispered curses. Designated a sanctuary by its own sovereign laws, it defied all nations—even the Kingdom of Francia, which nominally claimed it. No roads carved its forests, no towers pierced its skies. For this was an island ruled not by kings, but by the wrath of its women.
In 2020, Francia had sought to erect a nuclear plant on its shores. The project collapsed—not from lack of technology, but from the island's savage resistance. Men sent to build were harvested for seed, their bodies later offered to lunar altars in blood-soaked rites. Ninety percent vanished; the rest fled, swimming for days through shark-infested waters. Even boys born here were destined for the blade, their brief lives ending as sacrifices to the moon's pale gaze. The world branded its people savages. Travel guides scrubbed its name from maps, and nations shuddered at its mention.
Once, it had been a kingdom: the Star-Moon Sovereignty, a glittering power in the 19th century. But Francia's armies crushed it, slaughtering indigenous men and enslaving their women. The island's history was written in ash—until 1903, when its daughters rose, claws sharpened by generations of rage. They reclaimed their land in three years of guerrilla warfare, forging a new constitution that answered to no crown.
Now, the Lunarian Tribe—named for their devotion to the moon goddess—guarded their autonomy with fanatical zeal. Their women trained as warriors and scholars, their minds as lethal as their blades. To survive was to dominate; to love was to defend. Francia's banners still fluttered faintly on paper, but the island's heart beat untamed—a feral hymn to freedom, etched in blood and bark.
The Isle of Whispers,
On the Moon Isle, the Lunarian tribe lived in harmony with the land, their days measured by the rhythm of hoe and harvest. They tilled fields of rice and wheat, tended orchards heavy with subtropical berries and strawberries, and herded cattle, goats, and pigs through emerald pastures. Here, there was no mechanical clamor—only the symphony of rustling leaves, lowing livestock, and the distant crash of waves. A subtropical jewel, the island danced through four seasons: springs painted in cherry blossoms, summers thick with humidity, autumns of amber harvests, and winters veiled in mist.
Three cities anchored their simple yet purposeful existence: Luna City, Bulan Town, and the City of Light. None bore glass towers or neon sprawl. Instead, their structures rose from the earth itself—bamboo lattices and timber beams, roofs thatched with reeds, blending into the forests like natural extensions of the landscape. The Lunarians were a people of calloused hands and keen minds, their diligence matched only by their reverence for women. Every man, raised under the moon's watchful eye, bowed not in submission, but in deep-rooted respect for the matriarchy that had forged their survival.
By 2100 AD, a new chieftain had risen: Lesley, a woman whose gaze held the sharpness of a falcon and the warmth of dawn. She governed not from a throne, but from the soil—tending to the sick, laboring alongside farmers, and guiding those who ventured beyond the island to seek knowledge. Their return was sacred, for every lesson learned abroad was poured back into the tribe, nurturing the next generation of Lunarian daughters.
But the world of men knew little of the island's best-kept secret: though barred to male travelers, its shores welcomed women from every corner of Earth. Many from Francia's glittering cities journeyed here, lured by tales of serenity and sisterhood. Some stayed for seasons, others for lifetimes, sharing skills—medicine, engineering, astronomy—gifts that wove seamlessly into the Lunarians' ancestral wisdom. It was a silent rebellion, a haven where women lifted women, their collective strength hidden like a seed beneath the island's fertile soil.