Kingdom of Dagla
From the memories of Scholn de Lorens
about
Dagla...
Even now, when I write this name, my hand trembles. Not from fear—from memory. As if somewhere deep in the soul a child still remembers that first time I saw this city from the hill. Mother held my hand and whispered: "Look, son. Remember. There's no such beauty anywhere else."
She was right.
Dagla was a country where the wind smelled not of road dust, but of sea salt and sweet pollen of valleys. Here flowers grew right on the pavements—not weeds, but real roses, lilies, jasmine. Citizens didn't pull them out. "Why?" they wondered at foreigners. "It's beauty."
That was the whole philosophy of Dagla. Why hoard gold in chests if you can adorn children's hair with it? Why build fortresses if you can build fountains? They traded not just goods—they traded dreams. Each of their goblets sang at the touch of lips. Each ring held the laughter of the master.
I remember how father explained their secret to me: "They don't make things, son. They make joy visible."
Rich ports glittered on the horizon like a scattering of jewels on sea velvet. In the mornings, markets came alive with merchants' voices—rough and tender at once, like a lullaby sung by working hands. Dagla stood at the intersection of all the world's trade routes, and gold flowed here like a river.
But that wasn't their wealth.
Their wealth was the hands of masters who could turn simple clay into a bowl that made you want to cry from beauty. Their wealth was hearts that believed: the world was created for joy, not suffering.
Naive? Yes.
Doomed? Of course.
And yet... Wasn't their naivety beautiful?