This is my city Swan.

  Swan lies hidden between towering mountains, cradled by walls of stone that have stood for centuries. To reach us, an enemy would have to cross borders, survive foreign armies, and bleed through lands not their own.

  That is why the people believed Swan was untouchable. Safe.

  In the very heart of that city stood my home.

  But safety is a fragile illusion.

  My father was a drunk. Every night, the house trembled with shouting. Bottles shattered against walls. My mother’s voice cracked between anger and exhaustion. I was too young to understand politics, war, or power — but I understood fear.

  Sometimes, the war inside a home hurts more than the war outside it.

  I was seven when Koziyo attacked.

  The sky roared before I even knew what was happening. Massive stones tore through rooftops as catapults hurled fire across the city. Soldiers ran without orders. Flames swallowed entire streets. The mountains that once protected us now echoed with screams.

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  Swan burned.

  Our army fought back. Blood stained the stone roads. By nightfall, the invaders were pushed back.

  We won the war.

  But I lost everything.

  In the chaos, my mother left me behind.

  I searched for her in smoke-filled streets, calling her name until my voice broke. She never answered.

  And while the city bled, my father was looting abandoned homes — stuffing stolen valuables into sacks as if war were a marketplace.

  I remember the rage.Small. Powerless. Silent.

  That was the day something inside me changed.

  Years passed.

  The king rebuilt Swan, but not for everyone.

  A massive wall was raised — not against enemies, but between the rich and the poor. The king believed that if another invasion came, the poor would die first, buying time for the wealthy to escape.

  The city was restored.

  The injustice remained.

  That was the day I stopped being a child.

  I swore revenge —on Koziyo,on my father,and on the king who decided who deserved to live.

  Not because I was strong.

  But because, from that day forward…

  I began to see.