The scene shifted to a time long ago, in the Land of Songhai, where countless cities stood in their glory—each unique, each bearing the mark of destiny. Some were known for their fertile soil and endless fields, where the harvest never failed. Others thrived in trade, wealth, and the arts, while a few lived in shadow, balanced precariously between good and evil.
Among them, three cities shone with particular renown.
The first was Aniodal Mat, a land blessed with soil as rich as heaven's own garden. Its fields stretched wide, painted in green during the rains and gold in the season of harvest. Farmers bent their backs under the sun, yet their labor bore fruit in abundance. It was said that the earth itself sang in Aniodal Mat, offering its riches to all who dwelt within. Travelers came from far-off lands, not only to taste its produce but to marvel at a land where plenty was a promise kept by the soil.
The second city was Danish, famed throughout Songhai for its dominion over animals. Here, cattle grazed in endless herds, horses thundered across plains, and sheep dotted the hillsides like stars scattered upon velvet night. The people of Danish were strong and disciplined, their lives bound to the rhythm of hoof and herd. Generation after generation, they had mastered the art of animal rearing, so much so that Danish was often called the heartbeat of Songhai's strength.
And then,there was city of cural.
The stories of Songhai often found their voice in Cural, for no other city stirred as much awe, desire, and fear. To travelers, it was a city wrapped in mystery, where shadows walked as freely as men and beauty glimmered like fire under the night sky. To its own people, however, it was home—a place where grace and danger shared the same breath.
Cural stood as the jewel of Songhai, yet also its riddle. Built at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, it bore the mark of both blessing and curse. Legends claimed that the forest was a dwelling place for spirits—some benevolent, others dark. Many who ventured too deep never returned, and those who did often spoke in whispers of sights too strange for human words: trees that moved, lights that flickered without flame, and voices that called their names in the dead of night.
But within the city itself, life thrived in contrasts. The men of Cural were tall and strong, their presence commanding, their reputations carried far beyond the kingdom's borders. They were warriors, builders, and leaders, often envied for both their strength and their striking appearance.
The women of Cural, however, were the city's crown. Stories of their beauty spread across Songhai like wildfire. Many believed that God Himself had shaped them differently, as though His hand had lingered a little longer when He formed them. They were angelic in form, with hair like spun gold, eyes that held both fire and gentleness, and bodies sculpted with elegance and balance. Yet their beauty was not idle. They were diligent, kind, and industrious, their labor sustaining the very rhythm of the city.
Cural was, therefore, both heaven and earth woven together. It was a city of temptation and devotion, of danger and desire. To walk its streets was to feel the pull of opposites—to be caught between the sacred and the profane, between light and shadow.
And so, in the chronicles of Songhai, it was said: "In Aniodal Mat lies abundance, in Danish lies dominion, but in Cural lies the mystery of the divine."
Yet behind its beauty, a whisper lingered—an unspoken truth that Cural's greatness would not remain untouched. For every city born of light carries a shadow, and every legacy has a beginning to its end.