Cling, clang, cling, along the rattle of the sound beyond an iron lifeline. It endlessly thundered, leading to their doom. Hundreds of 12-year-young, ragged children marched forward with lifeless eyes. Knowing the end is nearing very soon, no child cried as if all the tears were tired.
Luminous, one of the children that was being dragged to an unknown memory of god, sighed. The cold breeze blew across his face but there was nothing pleasant about it. Instead of refreshment, it stirred the wound on his cheek, making it throb with a sharp, stinging pain—a cruel reminder of the life that awaited him, if he ever made it back.
"So, it's finally over." he mutterd remembering all that suffering and pain that he went through amounted to nothing in this vast and desolate place.
Lume clenched his fists and steeled his heart as his number was called. The rusted chains, ever so cold against his skin, clinked and dragged behind him as he stepped to embrace the altar of a forgotten god. For the first time in nearly 3 years since the day he was taken, his hands were finally unshackled. But there was no relief, and no freedom to savor. It was not salvation but a sentence.
He marched into the unknown, into the memory that never gave back a single soul.