The transmission faded, and the weight of an entire civilisation hung in the balance. The general paced the back room made of stone, but no amount of pacing was going to fix this. Thousands of Zoronians waited with bated breath in the great hall.

  He stood alone — not frozen in fear, but paralysed by uncertainty after hearing La Mort’s words.

  How do I go back to them? How do I tell them I have failed and that my promise meant nothing? They look to me in times of need. When hardship arises, I provide the answers that give them warmth in cold times. But now, what can I give them — empty promises, lies that everything will be fine?

  I can’t stand there, look them in the eyes, and lie to them. What leader would that make me? I must act like the leader they expect me to be. No matter how hard it is now — a lie would guarantee their deaths.

  Oh, Father… how I wish you were here to share your wisdom with me now.

  The general drew a long breath and steadied himself. He had avoided addressing his people long enough. He spun on his heel and headed for the door. As his hand reached for the handle, he paused, exhaled, then stepped into the great hall.

  The hall spread far and wide; its stone walls had stood firm for thousands of years. Their surfaces were rough, cracks like veins running through the blocks. Seated on the benches were thousands of Zoronians — mothers, fathers, children — all waiting to hear a word from their leader.

  Wind swept through where the glass windows once were. Dust gathered in the corners, sand preserved like memory; no one swept it away. They treated the hall as they had found it, keeping history intact.

  General Kantaos made his way through the back and onto the stage, standing before his people.

  “People of Zoron,” he began, his voice echoing through the hall. “You entrusted me for over two decades to lead you, and part of leadership is telling the truth, no matter how hard it is.”

  He sighed. The look of disappointment he had been holding back finally surfaced, and the hall began to stir with unease.

  The people already knew.

  “It’s okay,” said one onlooker, rising from his seat. “You don’t need to explain, General. We understand. La Mort refuses our plea for mercy.”

  A murmur swept through the crowd. Another voice cut through — sharper, bitter.

  “We appealed to the humanity of a man who has none,” said a broad-shouldered man near the front. “What did we expect? La Mort’s soul died long ago. The boy — the part of him you thought you could reach — is gone, buried under years of bloodshed. The hundreds of thousands he’s slaughtered… that blood cannot be atoned for. Does he even care? No. The only thing he cares about is power.”

  A young Zoronian woman rose next, her voice trembling but fierce. She had been there the day La Mort spared them. “He’s right,” she said. “That day he spared us, he was waiting — hoping for an excuse to kill and leave only those he needed for the harvest. I said it then, and I’ll say it now: we should have seen this coming.

  “If he feels no remorse for his own kin, then hoping for mercy was lunacy — born of desperation. The madman doesn’t even need our harvest; he demands it to remind us who owns us. And we allow it, like obedient pets bowing to their master!”

  The crowd erupted — shouting, bickering, arguing among themselves as though noise could bring order. Some pointed toward the general, others at each other. Chaos spread like fire.

  Then a farmer pushed through the aisle, his face lined with exhaustion and fury. “I’m sick of it!” he shouted. “Sick of us arguing while we rot. We work ourselves to death for someone who’d crush us without a second thought, while our own people barely survive! If we don’t resist now — we never will!”

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  General Kantaos folded his arms, his expression unreadable as he let the man speak. Then, calm and steady, he asked, “And what do you propose?”

  He waited, letting the silence linger just long enough for the weight of his words to settle. “Resist? Fight the most powerful army in the galaxy?”

  “That’s exactly what we propose!” another shouted from across the hall. “We have no honour left. He has stripped us of our dignity — of what made us proud Zoronian people! I refuse to raise my children in a world where their lives mean nothing!”

  His voice rose to a roar, and the crowd took up the chant. Their cries for war echoed through the hall.

  Kantaos’s eyes swept across the sea of faces, every one of them burning with passion and rage.

  My people have lost their minds, he thought. We barely have warriors left, and they speak of war as if we stand a chance. What use is pride if we are all dead?

  Then, through the chaos, a woman’s voice rang out — calm, firm, commanding. “Enough!”

  The crowd began to quiet as she made her way from the back, her steps slow but purposeful. Her voice carried like wind through stone. “We move beyond the stars,” she said, “out of La Mort’s reach.”

  General Kantaos’s face softened as he saw her — his wife. A flicker of relief crossed his weary features. “My dear Keylah…” he whispered.

  Keylah stepped onto the stage and stood beside him. “War is not the answer,” she said, her tone steady. “Our children — do we want to see them slaughtered before our eyes, knowing our rashness sealed their fate?”

  Her words calmed the crowd like rain on a wildfire. Murmurs turned to silence.

  “We must use our heads, not our hearts,” Keylah continued. “We must abandon the old ways and leave this planet. Zoron is the people — not the rock beneath our feet. Our culture lives in us, not in stone.”

  Gasps rippled through the hall. To many, Zoron was everything — the graves of their ancestors, the soil that held their lineage. Leaving meant stepping into the unknown, abandoning generations of memory.

  An old woman rose, frail but unyielding, leaning on her walking stick as she approached the aisle’s centre. “Abandon our home?” she asked softly. “Leave the ground our ancestors built? Leave behind our history, our culture, the places where we speak to the dead?”

  The hall went silent again. Her pain was shared by many.

  Keylah’s eyes met the old woman’s, calm but resolute. “We are our history,” she said. “Not this planet. Our loved ones live through us — in our memories, our stories. Keeping our people alive keeps their legacy alive. But if we stay here, clinging to pride, we will become like the others — slaughtered and forgotten. I know what I choose… and I choose to live.”

  The crowd fell into quiet discussion, torn between fear and reason.

  General Kantaos stepped forward, his voice echoing through the hall once more. “My wife is right,” he said. “To those who wish to come with us, you are welcome. To those who choose to stay and fight — know this, my brothers and sisters — I understand. We leave at dawn. I hope to see you there.”

  As the crowd dispersed, Zoron was divided. Some clung to the only home they’d ever known. Others prepared quietly, ready to sacrifice the past for a chance at the future.

  But time was not on their side.

  When Keylah and Kantaos returned home, the general stood by the window, watching his people pack what little they could carry.

  Keylah joined him, resting a gentle hand on his arm. “You’ve done all you can, dear. You cannot force people to see what you see. Their hearts are their own.”

  Kantaos turned sharply, pacing away from the window. “How can I just leave them, knowing what awaits? I’m supposed to protect them — guide them — and now I’m abandoning them to be slaughtered.”

  Keylah placed a hand on his shoulder. “A true leader does what is best for their people, no matter how hard that decision may be,” she said softly. “La Mort has forced our hand. Leaving is our only chance. You can’t save everyone. No matter how noble your intentions, there will always be those you can’t reach.”

  He looked at her, eyes full of conflict. “I understand, my love — it’s just hard, that’s all.”

  She brushed a hand along his face, offering warmth where there was none left in him.

  The general said he understood, but Keylah knew better. He had always led with his heart. This time was no different.

  “Stop overthinking and rest, my love,” she whispered. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

  He nodded absently. “Yeah… I’ll get some rest soon.”

  But his thoughts were far from rest.

  I’ve heard the stories of his conquests, Kantaos thought. I’ve witnessed his power firsthand. I’ve seen the heads turned into trophies in his throne room. How can I not punish myself, knowing their deaths won’t be quick — that my people will suffer?

  He plays games. They’ll become his playthings when he unleashes hell on Zoron. And I’m supposed to ride off beyond the stars, knowing their bodies will litter the plains, unburied and unremembered. I will be haunted by their faces — a nightmare I’ll never outrun.

  But for her… I will bear it silently. My love does not need that burden. She didn’t choose to lead — I did. So it is my burden and my burden alone to bear.