{ Warning: This chapter contains heavy and disturbing themes. Reader discretion is advised. }
....
The dust kicked up by the servants' horses hasn't even settled before the village returns to its eerie, mechanical rhythm. There are no tears, no hushed whispers of rebellion, and no one dares to even look up.
It's as if the boy tied to the pole has become nothing more than a piece of weathered wood—a part of the landscape they have all agreed to ignore.
I stand there, my chest heaving from the futile attempt to chase the horses. My ghostly lungs burn, and my legs feel like lead. I watch the distant cloud of dust vanish into the horizon, taking the identity of their "Lord" with them.
I slowly turn back to the center of the square.
