The bitter war enraging in Aselaira would be the death of its people. The enemy, the neighboring Kingdom of Lassaira, fought with all its might. The battle between the two adjoining Kingdoms existed since I was a babe. My mother said the war had been going on for fifteen years. Most of those around didn’t even remember the reason behind the war anymore.
Many discerned the King was mad. He didn’t care for his people or his Kingdom. He only wanted dominance and was drunk with the intoxicating allure of the power of Lassaira. The obsession consumed him and drove him to the point of madness.
There had been some small periods of peace in the land, but it was minuscule compared to the time of conflict. You could never get comfortable in any one place and become content, for soon the war would wage, and your life would again be in chaos.
The peril and insecurity were never ending. It was a stark force to contend with—one that would not rift. It was a daily struggle to remain hopeful. I attempted to constantly remind myself that hope was out there. I would dream that help would come and save us all.