One of the oldest peoples on the continent. Busy men, obsessed with power, wealth, and greed — although their greed was greater than their own ambitions. They were a prosperous people, governed by merchants and wise leaders, but deep down, all equally greedy.
The Arcadians dominated the continent. They were the first to globalize trade routes, especially those involving spices. They ruled with an iron fist. They ruled with blood, sweat, and semen.
They built an empire that spread for 300 years. They were dominant, glorious, victorious. Songs were composed to celebrate their victories and arrogance. They possessed the technology of steel and the will of iron, tempered with a taste for gold, silver, copper, and precious stones.
In their lands — especially in the capital, Litus, which was once the most coveted city in the world — there was abundance, but even more misery. Hunger, epidemics, wars. Even among themselves, there were disagreements: they wanted order, but forgot that governing is not playing a board for an hour — it is a task for an entire lifetime.
Arcadia was prosperous. Great ideas emerged, but were never put into practice. There was a rigid class division. To keep the economy running, enslaving people was considered necessary, a way to “trim” the system. Most of the population was humiliated, treated like dogs — sometimes purely for entertainment. Children were preferred, because “flesh tears more easily.” Crushed skulls became toys, chewed like gum.
The Arcadians were wise, yes — but selfish. They did not share knowledge. Knowledge was a locked fortress. Selfishness perpetuated their dominance.
In their lands, they took pride in their sexual organs. They served dishes with obscene names. Even so, the Arcadian language was beautiful — speaking Arcadian was like guessing thoughts, drawing perfect sounds for dawn, dusk, loving, going mad... Even the cruelest words sounded beautiful: eviscerate, impale, rape, kill, hang, steal.
They were excellent administrators. But they stumbled over their greatest pride. They raped thousands of women and spread bastard children across the continent — but forgot to raise children at home. They failed at the obvious. They thought they would live forever. It was not stupidity. It was a lack of legacy. A lack of successors.
Many renegade Arcadians migrated toward the center of the continent, into the valley where the City of Ceres now stands. They are the bastard children of the Arcadians.
Today, the remnants of Arcadia still believe themselves glorious, as if they were living three hundred years in the past. Their decay is a cut throat: slow, constant, bloody. They are falling — not because they were defeated, but because they refuse to accept the fall.
The City of Ceres surpassed the father who rejects, hates, and envies her. An absent father, a ghost dead in childbirth. Ceres, at times, still seeks that approval — the approval of the dead. An approval that will never come.
Arcadia attacked Ceres before the continent’s multilateral agreements. The continent, once at war, decided where to centralize its wealth. Ceres was chosen: surrounded by snow-capped mountains, a place considered cursed. Its curse became its redemption.
Today, attacking Ceres is attacking the continent.
And Arcadia?
Arcadia loves to hate Ceres.
Arcadia today is not even a shadow of what it once was.
A city always in ruins, filled with old men who are proud, resentful, envious...
Old men who die alone.
Hating Ceres is already part of their genetic code.
Arcadia is governed by Antus Alme, elected by its ten-member Senate.
And, as fate would have it, Mother Ceres never turned her back on them.
We must care for and honor what we bring into the world.
Mother Ceres does this with her children.
Deep down, the greatest fear of the Arcadians is not defeat.
It is the day their gods descend from the heavens, kneel before Mother Ceres, and confess:
— I tried to change the entire world twice. I failed both times.
I, being immortal, with eternity on my side, with perfect conditions...
How did you do it, Ceres?
Pause.
Mother Ceres smiled.
And then she tore the gods’ hearts out — with her bare hands — and ate them raw.
The blood ran down her chin like sacred wine.
The gods fell before her, like broken statues.
Their eternity ended there.
And then she spoke:
— You, gods upon your pedestals, need faith, a soul, devotion...
I only needed children.
— I suffer. I am hungry. I am thirsty. I am tired. I bleed...
And yet, I am mortal.
And it was with this that I defeated you.
Arcadia is a zombie waiting for its grave.
A rotting empire that breathes out of stubbornness.
Mother Ceres, out of compassion or pact, extends her hand — makes donations, offers cooperation. There is a bitter symbiosis there: resentment and love dance within the same body.
But the Arcadians… they still steal.
They steal formulas, break into laboratories, spy on secret experiments.
They are the roar of a rat before the force of nature.
A former god still present, powerful, refusing to accept its fall — and everyone trembles out of ancient reflex.
And even so, Mother Ceres remains loyal to the agreement.
The Arcadians, in turn, do not bow.
They hate the donations.
They spit on them. They set them on fire.
Mother Ceres does not care.
To her, it is like a bacterium in the body screaming for significance.
Like a human screaming his existence into the silence of the universe.
She understands. She accepts.
She knows that one cannot change one’s father.
But there is nobility in living together.
There is beauty in loving a father who hates you.
In moving forward, knowing that approval will never come.
And still, moving forward whole.
Continental Council Union
All the leaders of the continent were gathered in Mother Ceres’s Tower, in an isolated room made entirely of black marble. The environment — silent, luxurious, hermetic — offered elevated boxes with abundant food, wine, fruit, and Ceres products in abundance. The heads of state were there, accompanied by their secretaries.
Alac Bilac, from Oplon, known as the man who had never lost a war, was present. His voice had never been heard in public. His presence was enough. He ruled the racist dictatorship known as The White Shield.
Antus Alme, leader of Arcadia, attended under pressure, since his country had attacked the Ceres school, only three kilometers from the border.
The Republic of Fiume sent representatives, as its president was at war with the Republic of Garpan — which, in turn, also sent delegates, since its leader remained in the trenches on the other side of the front line.
Silencium was represented by its Chancellor, Aquila, cold and composed.
Other representatives came, even with their countries at war in other parts of the world.
The meeting had been called personally by Mother Ceres. She entered the room in her flowing dress, so long that it covered her feet. She glided across the floor as if floating. Her face was hidden behind an opaque black shield, covered by a veil, and upon her head rested an arched crown of iridescent crystals.
She proposed immediate sanctions against Arcadia, because of the attack that killed 15 children at the Ceres school.
Antus Alme countered, saying that during the offensive he had lost 80 of his best soldiers and that a single child from Ceres had killed 10 of them.
The rest of the council considered the meeting irrelevant.
“In other regions of the world, we lose 3,000 men a day,” someone said. “Ceres already has too many children. It is neutral. It is functional. Let it accept the losses.”
Despite the coldness, they proposed an agreement.
Something Mother Ceres wanted from Arcadia.
Silence hung like thick smoke. Mother Ceres remained standing, motionless, without even adjusting her veil. When she spoke, her mouth could not be seen — only a voice could be heard, seeming to emerge from the room itself, as if the black marble were whispering.
Mother Ceres:
— Arcadia violated the limits of neutrality. Fifteen children were cremated. In my doctrine, one child is worth more than a hundred soldiers. You speak of numbers, but we create souls. And now, I ask for a soul.
Antus Alme leaned forward, his voice harsh, without a trace of reverence:
— You call it a soul; I call it a weapon. That child killed ten men. You indoctrinate them, train them, and fill them with fanaticism. We lost eighty. Where is the balance?
Mother Ceres:
— There is no balance between what sows and what destroys. You made war a cult. We made sacrifice a pillar. But a soul, yes... there is one that Arcadia possesses, and I claim it.
Chancellor Aquila, of Silencium, raised her eyes, the first time she had spoken:
— The Council does not negotiate political prisoners, nor individuals. What does Arcadia possess that Ceres demands?
Mother Ceres:
— I demand Koee Nahin.
The room trembled. The name fell like a bell in an empty temple.
Antus Alme (replying slowly):
— Koee Nahin is not a citizen of Ceres. He was born in Arcadia. He is mine. He is of my blood.
Mother Ceres:
— Blood is irrelevant. He was a student at the Ceres School. He wrote verses that smelled of spring. He spoke to plants as if they were ancient sisters. He is registered in our book of intentions — he asked to serve the Mother, to become a seed.
Alac Bilac, for the first time, lowered his chin, murmuring to his secretary. His face was neutral, but his eyes betrayed fascination.
Antus Alme (his voice trembling):
— He is the only direct heir of my clan. He belongs to me by ancestral right. They killed my soldiers. Is that not enough?
Mother Ceres:
— No. My dead children will not return. But if Koee Nahin comes, I can plant in his soul the silence that purifies. He will live among us. He will be educated. There will be no vengeance. Only the living testimony of what they lost and what we could have been. Ceres’s neutrality is not broken by weapons, but by forgetting.
The Council murmured among themselves. Fiume and Garpan remained silent, avoiding irritating either Arcadia or Ceres. The Chancellor of Silencium watched, implacable, like a judge.
Chancellor Aquila:
— If Arcadia surrenders Koee Nahin, does Ceres withdraw all sanctions and maintain neutrality?
Mother Ceres:
— Yes. I declare publicly: I will ask for no more blood. One child for fifteen. That is mercy.
Antus Alme, trembling, shook his head in refusal.
— He will not survive there. He will disappear into your silence.
Mother Ceres (without emotion):
— He will be remembered in marble, if he wishes. Or in earth, if he wishes to sprout.
A heavy pause hung in the air. Slowly, Antus Alme rose.
Antus Alme:
— Koee Nahin will be taken at dusk. But let it be recorded: there is no agreement between our morality and that of Ceres.
Mother Ceres:
— There is no morality in a field of ashes. Only survival.