In a desolate, forsaken corner of the ruined Bloodburn Kingdom, shadows lingered like mournful ghosts. Shattered buildings and charred ruins stood as grim remnants of a once-thriving civilization, now reduced to mere echoes of misery and pain.
The air was thick with despair, tainted by the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of burnt flesh.
The captured survivors, broken and spiritless, shuffled aimlessly within the Draconian camps. Their hollow eyes gazed blankly ahead, lifeless shells of the vibrant people they had once been.
Women, toyed with and raped mercilessly, moved listlessly, their faces pale and gaunt, bodies scarred from the cruelty inflicted upon them.
Men, once proud warriors, and protectors, now lay tortured and chained, their backs raw from endless whippings and their skin flayed.
Even the children, those who had survived, wore faces far too old for their age—eyes dull, voices forever silenced by trauma too immense for young hearts.
