While verek is in Eldoria some where else in a land far far way is the land of pendoria
The sun had just begun its slow ascent over the fertile fields of Pendorain, a land rich in verdant plains, hills dotted with olive trees, and rolling rivers that gleamed like silver veins beneath the morning light. For centuries, the Pendorians had lived in peace, a society rooted in the rhythms of nature and a shared love for their land. In Loris, a small village at the heart of the kingdom, the morning had unfolded in quiet harmony. The air was fresh, crisp, filled with the sounds of birds calling, children laughing, and the distant hum of farmers tilling their fields. It was a world untouched by the brutality of war.
Lora, a girl no more than five, skipped across the village square, her golden hair bouncing in the wind. She was a child full of life and curiosity, always asking questions, always wanting to understand the world around her. "Father, when will I be as strong as the warriors in the stories?" she asked as she approached her father, Lysander, who was sitting on the worn wooden steps of their small home. His weathered face, though tired from years of hard work, held a warmth as he looked down at his daughter.
"You'll be strong when you need to be, Lora," he answered with a soft chuckle. "But remember, strength is not just about the sword. It's about the heart, about knowing when to fight and when to stand in peace."
Lora's small hands gripped the fabric of his tunic. "But what if they come here? What if they come and hurt us?"
Lysander's smile faded slightly. The threat of war had been a shadow on the edge of their world for many years now—whispers of a ruthless empire known as the Spartans. Warriors from a distant land, known for their unyielding conquest and brutal strategies. For as long as Lora could remember, her father had reassured her that such things were stories, something that happened far away, beyond the horizon. But deep down, even he could feel the tension growing in the air.
"Don't worry about them, my dear," Lysander said, ruffling her hair gently. "Our people have never known war, and we will never let it come here."
But on this morning, something felt different. The wind had changed, carrying with it the scent of danger. The faint sounds of distant drums and the thrum of marching feet barely reached the village, but they were enough to stir the hearts of the elders.
The first messenger came in the afternoon, stumbling into Loris from the south, his clothes ragged, his face pale with terror. He had traveled for days through dangerous lands, his eyes wide with the kind of fear that only comes from having witnessed something far worse than death. His words were breathless, choked with fear.
"They're coming. The Spartans… they march on Pendorain," he gasped, his voice breaking as the villagers gathered around him. "They won't stop until they have all of your lands. There's nothing we can do. They'll kill us all."
The news spread like wildfire. Panic swept through the peaceful village of Loris, turning it into a frenzy of hasty preparations. The Pendorians had always been peaceful people, their lives devoted to farming, building, and sustaining their land. They had never known the horrors of war. But now, faced with an enemy like the Spartans, they had no choice but to defend what was theirs.
Lysander called for a council of the elders, and the village square became a place of tense deliberation. As the elders spoke in hushed tones, Lora could feel the air thicken with fear. The village had no army, no walls to defend them, and no weapons beyond farming tools and hunting bows. They were defenseless.
"We have no soldiers, no weapons. What can we possibly do against them?" one elder asked, his voice trembling.
"We cannot flee," another elder insisted. "The Spartans would hunt us down like animals. We must fight, even if it means our deaths."
Lysander stood, his presence commanding the attention of all who gathered. "We are not soldiers, but we will not give up our land without a fight. We may not have the strength of the Spartans, but we have the strength of our unity. If we must die, let it be in defense of this land and its people."
As the elders nodded grimly, the air grew colder. The message had been clear—there was no more time for peace. The village had to prepare for war, or it would be destroyed.
The Spartans arrived as a storm on the horizon, their war cries echoing across the plains as they descended upon Loris with a terrifying speed. There was no time for the Pendorians to organize. The attack came like thunder—brutal, swift, and overwhelming. Their leader, Commander Varnak, rode at the head of the army, his eyes cold and ruthless. The Spartan soldiers, clad in armor and bearing swords and spears, cut through the village like a hot knife through butter.
"Pathetic," Varnak muttered as he surveyed the village, his tone dripping with contempt. "A land of farmers and cowards. This will be easy."
The Pendorians fought back with the few weapons they had—farm tools turned into makeshift spears, clubs, and even kitchen knives. But their efforts were futile. The Spartans were trained warriors, seasoned by years of war. They cut down anyone who dared to stand in their way, their swords flashing in the sun as blood stained the earth.
Lora watched in horror as the world around her shattered. Her father was fighting bravely, his sword raised high, but it was clear that they were outmatched. The Spartans were too strong, too ruthless. Lysander fell first, struck down by a Spartan spear. The pain in Lora's chest was unbearable as she watched her father fall to the ground, lifeless.
"Father!" Lora cried, but no one heard her. The village was falling apart, the screams of the dying filling the air. The once peaceful land of Pendorain was now a battleground, its people slaughtered by the merciless invaders.
The Death of Lora's Innocence
Lora was pulled away from the chaos by her mother, who grabbed her hand and urged her to run. The two of them fled into the forest, where they hoped to hide from the horrors that had consumed their village. But it was clear that the land they had once known would never be the same.
"Don't look back, Lora," her mother said, her voice trembling. "Don't look back, no matter what."
But Lora could not help herself. She turned her gaze back toward the village just in time to see a group of Spartans break through the gates, slaughtering the last of the defenders. It was over. The Pendorians had lost.
As they ran deeper into the forest, Lora's mind raced with fear, confusion, and grief. Her father was gone. Her home was destroyed. And the Spartans were coming for them next. She had heard whispers of ancient rituals, of forbidden powers that could save a people from certain doom. In her desperate grief, she remembered a legend her father had once told her—the tale of Diablos, the devil that could grant unimaginable power to those willing to make a terrible sacrifice.
In the darkness of the forest, Lora stood trembling, clutching her mother's hand as she whispered the incantation she had remembered. She spoke the words that had been passed down through generations, a ritual that no one had dared perform in centuries.
"Diablos, come forth. Grant me the power to avenge my people."
The air around her seemed to crackle with energy as the earth trembled beneath her feet. Something ancient, something dark, stirred in the shadows, ready to answer her call.