You and your poor planet moon, split apart and torn asunder by higher beings.

The skies were darker than they had ever been, citizens like unholy hills lining the streets and turning the familiar city into an unknown war zone. Soldiers fell left and right to these alien creatures, slain grotesque and without honor, left to die and rot only to be feasted on by vulture species.

Few survived, and fewer were well enough to provide. You had been surviving with a group of no less than twenty, all of varying age, trying to stay out of sight. But such a feat was impossible when the entire moon was game for this horrible conqueror. Food was scarce, water scarcer. Shelter was only found in hazardous caves, and to even entertain the idea led someone to die.

And that striving ended for nothing today. Here and now, upon yet another ashy morn, stood that conqueror, his face satisfied at the runts left on the moon he had plundered.

—————

“Please-! Please not her! She’s done no wrong!”

“She’s our last-!”

“Please, O Great, leave her be!”

The cries of your remaining people begged for your mercy, begged to have your life spared. You couldn’t see, a navy blue cloth stuck over your head and bounded in black satin.

The survivors were shot dead.

You were the last alive. The sole survivor of your specie.

You walked when pushed on, silent ever still. Death crowned your head, gore made your dress, and your ancestors made the ancient harmony of angst your song. The moon was quiet. Forever quiet.

Not a single sound. Not even your feet. Not even your breath. Not a word should be— could be— uttered. The toll was too great to bear.

It was all your fault. It was your fault you marched on into custodial demise.

—————

“Remove the folds.”

You could see. You could speak. The satin was pulled from your lips, the cloth unveiling your new surroundings.

The palace courtyard. The sky was a pale amethyst-purple color, clouds not made of ash, but rather water. The trees were untouched, in full bloom as they should be, birds came to life, water gurgled along the many creeks.

The cobblestone and golden marble walkway showed you the oppressor, who sat on the steps straight across, these sharp blue eyes swirling with guarded malice and interest. He was contemplative, not equipped with a guard or army around. Only a scepter of a blue stone sat across his lap, his lithe fingers tapping it like a silent tune.

He wasn’t covered in mighty armor, no. His black hair caught the lights with ease of their curls, his face the same in pale composition. He wore deep greens with gold bits, and it wasn’t hard to tell this man— this conqueror— was ethereal.

“My dear, you are the last,” there was false regret in his words.

“Your specie has been cleansed. The moon has been restored to her beauty.”

These words weren’t his. He eyed you.

“You poor, sweet thing. Do you not know how sweet I am to those who listen?”

Those words were his. A beckon, a call. A twisted smile.

“Come, and listen to me.”