I began to see.

  Not the flames that once devoured Swan,

  not the mountains that guarded it,

  but the truth beneath its silence.

  The king rebuilt the city.

  Stone by stone, Swan rose again from its ashes. Markets reopened. Soldiers marched proudly through restored streets. Flags fluttered as if nothing had ever happened.

  But something had changed.

  The new walls were not built to keep enemies out.

  They were built to keep us apart.

  A massive barrier cut through the heart of Swan, dividing the rich from the poor. The king called it protection.

  We called it abandonment.

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  Inside the inner city, marble replaced ash. Fountains flowed again. Silk banners covered scars of war.

  Outside the wall, hunger replaced hope.

  I lived on the wrong side.

  From the shadows of broken homes, I watched the gates open only for merchants, nobles, and soldiers. The rest of us were left staring at the stone that decided our worth.

  No enemy had done this.

  Our king had.

  At first, I did not understand.

  Then I listened.

  “The poor will slow the enemy.”

  “If another invasion comes, they will die first.”

  “Time must be bought for the elite.”

  They spoke of lives like currency.

  And suddenly, I saw clearly.

  The war had never ended.

  It had simply changed shape.

  Children starved while the inner city celebrated survival. Families rebuilt their homes from scraps while nobles rebuilt theirs from gold.

  And every day, the wall stood taller in my mind than it did in stone.

  I stopped waiting for fairness.

  I stopped believing in rescue.

  If survival meant becoming something the city feared…

  Then so be it.

  Because the day Swan burned, I lost my childhood.

  The day the wall rose…

  I lost my innocence.

  And from that moment on,

  I began to understand the enemy was not just beyond the mountains—

  It lived within the city itself.