OverSimplified: Lincoln and his cheekbones, weren't only interested in law however, he also dabbled in the world of politics, serving as a legislator in both local and national assemblies. And what a time it was. Not even 100 years after the founding fathers wrote, "all men are created equal". Politicians were already asking,
Northern Politician: Yeah, but what does that mean exactly?
Southern Politician: It means all men.
Northern Politician: Yeah, but what does that mean... Exactly?
Stalliongrad, Stalliongrad
Stalliongrad, once known as Princessyn before the December Revolution, now stood as a proud industrial heart of the nation. It was one of the most heavily industrialized cities in the region and the capital of Stalliongrad itself. The city had long been a key player in the Vasiliy Pantsushenko Steel Belt initiative, thriving as the industrial backbone of a once-strong cooperation with General Secretary Altidiya. But those days of prosperity had faded, now just a bitter memory of unproductive stalemate between both ever since, which for common ponies was referred to as The Halting.
The Light Curtain flickered above, an anomaly that drew the attention of many, but for most ponies in the City of Stalliongrad, it was just another part of the backdrop. Sure, it was a spectacle, strange, to some alarming, but ultimately irrelevant to the lives of the common folks struggling, for there is always work to be done. The light curtain might show things that nopony has ever seen before, but what did that matter when there was no food to feed your family or yourself? Ration cards, the only currency that mattered to common folks, were earned from the sweat of your labor, and those who worked would take no time to watch the light curtain from above. Their stomachs, after all, didn't care for the wonders of the Light Curtain; they only cared for what could be redeemed with those hard-earned ration cards.
Most ponies returned to their workstations, resuming their tasks as the hum of Machineries filled the air. The lighting of their workstation flickered above them, casting faint reflections on their faces, but for those who were truly hungry, it might as well have been nothing. For the fortunate few who had accumulated extra ration cards or could afford to ignore the droning of their labor, the Light Curtain offered them entertainment that broke the repetitiveness of their lives. Even the upper echelons of the Severyanian Communist Party, with their special ration cards, enjoyed the luxury of watching, indulging in the comfort of full bellies and excess with their standing.
In the streets below, voices carried, mingling with the sound of work, the dull rumble of industry continuing as usual. Here and there, a conversation floated above the noise, some of it animated, other parts quieter and more contemplative.
"I commend that creature named Lincoln for being versatile," one stallion remarked, his voice thick with the accent of a veteran factory worker. "Not only in the matters of law but also in dabbling in politics. Quite the clever one."
"Agreed, Dear Comrade," came the reply from his companion, a short mare with a short, dark mane and tired eyes. "But it seems their nation, wherever it is, is divided on their founding principles. They claim 'all men are created equal,' but…" She shook her head, her voice filled with skepticism.
"Ridiculous, am I right, comrades? "Another voice chimed in from a nearby bench, a burly stallion with a coarse, gravelly tone. "That's like questioning Caramel Marks' vision for us, saying that 'everypony will be given equal opportunities, and everypony will receive everything according to their need.' What's the point of even debating it? "
"Well, what about you, Coal? Got anything to say?" the short mare of the group asked, turning to another figure seated nearby. His face was obscured by a shadow, his eyes gleaming from beneath a well-worn cap.
Coal grunted, a low, disapproving noise. "I don't trust that creature talking to the other creature," he muttered, his gaze flicking toward the light curtain with an air of suspicion.
The conversation fell into a brief lull as the group exchanged glances, the buzzing of machinery in the background almost overpowering the silence.
"Okay… let's just keep watching," the stallion who had first spoken suggested, shrugging nonchalantly. With a collective sigh, the group's attention returned to the light curtain above.
And not just that, states' rights versus the federal government. What are the executive powers of the president? Is cereal a soup? The founding fathers left some of these question perhaps a little too open to interpretation. And the biggest question of them all was slavery, an ugly mark, and what should have been a revolutionary new nation based on liberty and democracy. Thomas Jefferson had written a condemnation of slavery in the declaration of independence, but out of fear of losing Southern State support, it was removed.
"State rights? Federal government? What's the meaning of all these words being thrown around? " one of the workers of one of Stalliongrad's many factories asked, scratching his head in confusion, his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the terms that had recently flooded the discussions around them. His tone was a mix of curiosity and frustration, as though trying to keep up with words that felt too foreign from his daily reality.
"Don't know, don't care," came the blunt reply from his companion, a mare with a coat that had seen better days. She shrugged nonchalantly, as if the intricacies of unknown words were far beneath her concern. Her focus was on the task at hand, not on words that seemed irrelevant to her survival.
"Of course, of course, you have that sentiment," the first stallion muttered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "You've always been the 'don't ask, don't tell' type."
The mare simply huffed, giving a dismissive flick of her tail. "Hmp," was all she offered in response, too busy with her thoughts to indulge in further conversation.
"So, President, huh? "Another voice piped up from the group, a lanky stallion with a perpetual frown. "I suppose they must be like the Griffonian Republic griffons across the sea, considering their leader's also called 'President.' It's just like how we use 'General Secretary' here, right? "
"Huh? " came the incredulous response from the stallion sitting across from him, who seemed more interested in the crumbs of his leftover rations than the political discussion earlier but was now interested because of the 'is cereal a soup' part. '. "Since when is that a question? Of course, cereal is a soup. Anypony who says otherwise is in utter denial! "
There was a sharp gasp from the others. The mare who had been quietly observing the conversation suddenly shot up, her eyes wide with exaggerated shock. "Gasp! How DARE you say that! Cereal isn't and will never be soup, end of story! " She crossed her forelegs dramatically, as though making a final and irrevocable judgment.
"Oh yeah? " the first stallion shot back, grinning from ear to ear as if he'd just landed a perfect jab. "You're just mad because cereal fits the literary definition of soup! " He leaned back with a smirk, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth.
"On your dreams! Heretic! " she yelled, her voice a mix of mock outrage and playful defiance. She was on the verge of bursting into laughter, but she maintained the stance of righteous indignation.
The other ponies in the group looked between them, some bewildered, others amused, until a quiet voice interrupted the growing bickering. "Uh, comrades, what is cereal? " a young stallion asked innocently, his head tilted in confusion. He looked around, clearly out of the loop, and the others' antics only seemed to deepen his bewilderment.
"Oh, you poor summer foal," a mare groaned sympathetically, shaking her head as though she couldn't believe the young stallion's ignorance. "Cereal is... Well, it's a food! It's... You know, breakfast! You'll figure it out soon, kid." She nudged him playfully, but her expression was tinged with the same surprise she'd had when first learning about it decades ago .
"Don't worry, kid," the stallion who'd started the argument said with a grin, his tone shifting to something more reassuring. "We'll let you know what cereal is in no time. Anyway, nab him! "
"Hey! Hey! No need to nab me! " the young stallion protested, holding up his hooves in surrender. "I'll just come willingly, okay? I genuinely don't know what cereal is! "
Suddenly, a sharp, authoritative "Ahem." The voice rang out from above, cutting through the hum of the factory floor and halting the murmur of conversation in its tracks. Everypony froze mid-motion, and the bustling factory seemed to come to a sudden standstill, as if time itself had momentarily paused.
From the catwalk above, Iron Pin, the factory manager, looked down at the workers with a steely gaze that brooked no argument. Her presence was as unyielding as her name suggested. "I see you've all been enjoying yourselves, everypony. But we have a quota to fulfill for the state. So chop-chop, get back to work! " she called out, her voice carrying the weight of authority.
The workers shifted uncomfortably at her words, the suddenness of her presence a reminder that their moments of respite had come to an end. Among them, a burly stallion with a scruffy mane, whose tired eyes showed the strain of many hours spent working at a machine, let out a long, resigned groan. He glanced up at Iron Pin, his expression one of pleading frustration.
"Oh, come on, Iron Pin," he said, his voice laced with a mixture of exhaustion and hope. "Can't you just, I don't know, give us a break? I mean, look," he gestured to the nearly completed work around him, "the quota's practically finished. After this, we're just going to have to wait for the new quota and deadline from the Industrial Bureau. So, either way, we're going to chill sooner or later. Besides…" He raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping into a mock whisper, "isn't the deadline tomorrow? "
Iron Pin's gaze didn't waver as she listened, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as the stallion finished his plea. She was a mare of few words, known across the factory for her no-nonsense attitude. When it came to work, she was unrelenting but fair when it suited her, and the workers had learned to respect that balance over time.
She exhaled, a sound that could have been mistaken for exasperation, but there was an edge to it. Iron Pin's reputation wasn't one built on kindness, but on efficiency. After a long pause, she responded, her voice measured but firm.
"I'm afraid I can't grant that, dear comrades." Her eyes scanned the factory floor, making sure everypony could hear her. "In the next few minutes or so, an inspector is going to appear, and I don't want anypony slacking while they're here." She paused for a moment, her gaze now hardening. "So, as I said earlier, everypony get back to work! "
The shift in the air was immediate. A collective groan rose from the workers as the weight of Iron Pin's words settled over them. As much as they'd tried to convince her to give them a break, the mention of an inspector had killed any further arguments. Inspectors were one of the most feared figures in all of Stalliongrad. They didn't just check on safety measures; they also scrutinized the efficiency of the management. If the inspector found any lapses, it could mean the end for someone like Iron Pin. Factory managers who were deemed too lenient or inefficient in meeting quotas could be reassigned, demoted, or even replaced. And, as many of the workers knew all too well, they didn't always get a better replacement.
Most of the time, the new manager was worse. A lot worse. The workers had seen it happen before, those who had been replaced only to find themselves under the command of someone less competent, more rigid, or just downright cruel. Thankfully, they had Iron Pin. She might be tough as nails, but she kept the factory running smoothly, and for all their sakes, they hoped that she'd stay.
With a reluctant sigh, the workers returned to their tasks, the energy in the room becoming tense but focused. The sound of machinery and the occasional clink of metal filled the space once more, the workers' previous distractions now replaced with the grinding reality of their labor. The inspector was coming, and they couldn't afford to slack off, not just for their own sake, but for Iron Pin too.
~Griffonstone, Kingdom of Griffonstone~
Griffonstone, once a proud and prosperous city, now lay in ruins, a shadow of its former glory. Known as the birthplace of the first emperor of the Griffonian Empire, it had once been a bustling hub of culture and power, ruled by the prestigious Guto Dynasty. But now, it was nothing more than a desolate, poverty-stricken backwater, stranded in the middle of nowhere, forgotten by time and the world around them.
The city, once known for its towering structures and immaculate streets, was now a maze of crumbling buildings and muddy roads. The infrastructure had long since deteriorated, with blocked-up sewers that overflowed when the rains came and homes barely standing in the ever-encroaching decay. The population was anygriffon's bored enough to guess, as no census had been conducted in decades. Families struggled to get by in the shadows of what was once a proud kingdom, the streets filled with remnants of a forgotten past. Griffonstone had become a city defined by ruin, its few remaining symbols of grandeur standing like tombstones to a fallen kingdom.
The towering statues of old kings and emperors had crumbled or been torn down. Only one statue of Grover I, the founder of the Griffonian Empire, remained intact, standing defiantly in the center of one of the few surviving squares. It was a stark contrast to the crumbling, rundown buildings that surrounded it. The statue, though worn and weathered, seemed to hold onto the last vestiges of the city's pride, a silent, disappointed witness to the greed and strife that had torn the City of Griffonstone apart ever since the Idol of Boreas was lost.
Raids by the infamous Black Rock Bandits had become common, though many of the thieves now seemed to wonder what else was worth stealing in a city so battered and broken. "Brotha, what else is there to steal? "One of the bandits would joke to his comrades. "Like, seriously, we should go rob another city! " Even the bandits had grown bored of Griffonstone's ruin. But the scars left by the raids, the constant battles for dwindling resources, and the greed that had driven families to turn on each other were permanent.
For the griffons still living in this decaying place, all that remained were the stories. The stories of Griffonstone's past grandeur, of its once-proud rulers and the Idol of Boreas that had been lost to time, of the empire that had once stretched far and wide. But those stories were slowly fading into myth, as the griffons themselves fell deeper into despair. Brothers fought brothers, sisters fought sisters, and families turned against one another in their desperate struggles for survival. Trust had broken down, replaced by an insatiable hunger for power and wealth, no matter how little there was left to gain until today.
In one of the small, crumbling communities within Griffonstone, tucked away in a rundown shack near the last remaining statue of Grover I, sat an old griffon named Grandpa Gruff. His shack was small, its wood warped with age and weathered by the years, much like the griffon himself. He sat in a creaking rocking chair, a relic of better days, his old talons gently cleaning his musket, one of his most prized possessions aside from his hat, of course, the weapon an almost sad reminder of the times when Griffonstone had known a different kind of conflict.
Gruff glanced up at the statue of Grover I, his sharp eyes tracing the lines of the weathered stone, before turning his gaze to the shimmering light curtain overhead. The strange phenomenon had been quite a cause of intrigue, alarm, and surprise when it first appeared earlier this day; now it flickered from above, ready to show more…
With a heavy sigh, Gruff leaned back in his chair, his gaze slowly sweeping over the ruined square, taking in the decay and despair that surrounded him. The air felt thick with the weight of history, the weight of a once-great city that had been consumed by its own vices. He muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper as he looked at the wreckage of the city he had once known and lived in its prime.
"What did we do all wrong… for everything to lead up to this? " he asked, his words a mix of sorrow and disbelief. The question lingered in the air, unanswered as always.
As Grandpa Gruff sat there, his talons still working absently on his musket, though his mind was elsewhere. His gaze shifted back up to the shimmering light curtain that flickered from above, casting an eerie glow on the worn cobblestones of the square and on the entire ruined city of Griffonstone. Then what was being shown on the light curtain shifted once more, and this time, voices echoed through the square from the light curtain, cutting through the stillness.
Thomas Jefferson: "Hey guys, do you think leaving this a little vague will create any unforeseen problems in the future?"
Benjamin Franklin: "Cannonball."
Grandpa Gruff didn't flinch. Instead, he sat there, unmoving, his expression unchanged. He had seen enough of these bizarre showings of the light screen to know that they were just fleeting moments, like clouds drifting across the sky. What did they mean? What purpose did they serve? For him, it was nothing more than a fleeting distraction. A few words, a few moving pictures, and then it was gone, leaving behind only a sense of confusion, but one question remains…
Why should he care?
"Words are just winds," he muttered under his breath, quoting the old saying, as he had so many times before. Words came and went like the breeze, fleeting and empty. What value did they have in a place like Griffonstone, where actions were worth more than words? In a city where you couldn't even rely on your own family, how could you trust in the fleeting words of strange figures on a light curtain from the skies above?
He glanced at the griffons around the square, those who had nothing else to do but stand there and watch the light curtain, entranced by whatever strange things and figures of some creatures were being shown by the light curtain. They sat, some perched on broken benches, others leaning against crumbling walls, their eyes fixed on the flickering light above. It had become a sort of spectacle, one that they followed with a kind of devotion. Perhaps, for them, it was an escape, a fleeting glimpse into something beyond their decaying city. But to Gruff, it was just more noise, more distractions from the real world, from the real problems they faced every day.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he clicked his tongue in disapproval, his gaze sweeping over the captivated griffons. They were so eager to listen and watch things from the light curtain, so quick to take in every word, every moving picture, no matter how ridiculous or irrelevant to their lives. Yet, how many of them would sit down and listen to the stories of the past from HIM? The stories of Griffonstone's rise and fall, of the glory that once was, of the lessons that should never be forgotten? How many would pay attention to HIS stories, to the history that his forefathers lived and fought for? The stories that, to Himself, meant everything. The stories of his youth, of the city when it was strong, when it was filled with life and purpose.
But noooooo!. They were being too busy watching the light curtain, too distracted by it.
He shook his head, turning his attention back to the light screen from above. But his eyes had long since grown tired of its shifting moving pictures. To him, this was just another chapter in the book of Griffonstone's slow but inevitable demise, another futile distraction from the truths they all ignored for decades.
As he sat there, lost in his thoughts, he realized something. Perhaps it wasn't just the griffons in this very square who were too distracted. Perhaps, in his own way, he too had become numb to the city's suffering, to its slow decay. Maybe he'd spent so long lamenting the past that he had stopped seeing the present for what it was.
The thought made him sigh again, a deep, sorrowful sound. He had lived through so much, and yet, here he was, in this broken place, watching the world go on without him. Watching as the griffons of Griffonstone continued their search for meaning and purpose through something that just appeared in the skies of Griffonstone earlier.
And those unforeseen problems were now beginning to rear their ugly heads. As the nation developed the North and the South developed along two very different lines and two very different cultural identities emerged. Northern cities began rapidly industrializing while the Southern climate allowed for large plantations of labor-intensive crops. As a result, one half of the country didn't rely on slaves while the other half had become economically dependent on them. In 1793, Eli Whitney's cotton gin caused the slave trade in the South to explode, while in the North a growing abolitionist movement was taking root. A general mistrust began to develop between the North and the South. As Northerners felt the South were hellbent on expanding slavery and fear spread throughout the South that the North wanted to take their slaves away. In 1819, there were 11 free states and 11 slave states, a perfect balance, a happy medium, a harmonious relationship.
In another corner of Griffonstone, within the crumbling walls of an abandoned church, long forsaken by its faithful followers. The church of the Trinity, once a sacred place of worship of Boreas, Arcturus, and Eyr, now stood in ruin, as the faint smell of mildew and ash filled and lingered in the air, mixed with the sharp scent of roasting rats over a small contained fire. The flickering light cast shadows across the stone floor, dancing on the walls of the abandoned place of worship.
Atop one of the bell towers, in the makeshift camp of Gilda and her lackeys, the griffoness leader sat perched, sharp eyes narrowed as she watched the strange light curtain that had become a disruptor of the stillness of life in Griffonstone. Her claws tapped rhythmically on the stone, a soft clack-clack-clack against the ancient surface as she chewed on a piece of rat meat skewered on a stick. Her sharp beak tore into the charred flesh easily, but her mind was elsewhere, wandering to the light curtain hanging above Griffonstone.
The words heard from the light curtain barely caught her attention except for—"North and South, what does it remind me of? "—but she couldn't help but feel a strange resonance, a tug at the back of her mind. She paused, her beak still halfway to her mouth, and turned the thought over in her head.
North and South…
She tapped her claws against the stone as she chewed, trying to place the thought. And then it hit her, a realization as sudden as a strike of lightning.
House Eyrie and House Erie.
Both were warring houses within the Duchy of Verenia, two noble houses that, like the North and the South of the Light Curtain, had long since come to blows over control of the duchy. The records of the distant past were a mess, neglected and destroyed over the centuries. No one really knew which house had the right to rule, and over time, both had simply claimed to be the rightful Duke or Duchess of Verenia. It was a conflict that had raged for generations, with each house holding its own territories, each one living according to their own set of beliefs and values, thus dividing Verenia like whatever nation that is referred to in the light curtain is divided into North and South.
One house, much like the north of the light curtain, focused on industrializing. The other, mirroring the South, remained fixated on agriculture, cultivating the land and relying on its natural resources. But, as Gilda knew, there was no slavery involved, at least not in the same way as it. Griffonia, especially the Hertzlands, for all its flaws, had never been a place for such practices due to religious reasons. Still, the idea of exploiting the land and its workers was a reality for some parts of the continent, unfortunately.
Industrialization versus agriculture…
Gilda's mind drifted again, but she quickly shook it off. She wasn't one to get lost in these kinds of thoughts. She was above all that. Slavery and banditry were for others, for weaklings who couldn't carve out their own place in the world. She was a griffoness of pride, might, and strength, and she'd never stoop to the level of those who relied on such things to make their miserable lives better. No, she would rise through her own very claws, because it's her way or the dead way.
As she continued to watch the light curtain from above, her focus was suddenly broken by a repeated tapping on her shoulder.
Boss! Boss! Boss!
Gilda's head snapped up, her sharp beak curling into a snarl. Her patience was thin, and she had no time for distractions.
"What?! "She snapped, her voice harsh as the low growl of a predator.
One of her lackeys, a scrawny griffon with far too much energy, was standing behind her, his wide eyes full of nervous excitement. "W-Want some more rats, boss? " he stammered, holding out a skewer with another roasted rat, its scent mingling with the smoke rising from the fire.
Gilda eyed the rat for a moment before grabbing it from his outstretched talons with a sharp, decisive motion. "Yes, I do. Now scram," she said gruffly, her voice still cold with annoyance. "Can't you see I'm busy? " She turned her gaze back to the light curtain above, though her mind was already slipping back into her own world, her thoughts far more complex than her lackeys could ever understand.
Her lackey nodded quickly, trying to hide his relief, and scurried off to attend to other matters. Gilda, meanwhile, resumed her watch, chewing on the rat as she pondered at her options.
~Griffenheim, Griffonian Empire~
Griffenheim, the ancient and once-proud capital of the Griffonian Empire, stood as a grand yet fading symbol of imperial power and modernity. Its sprawling districts and intricate architecture spoke of a time when the empire had ruled with unparalleled might, its influence extending vastly across Griffonia. But now, as the years dragged on, it had earned a new, less flattering nickname: the Sick Bird of Griffonia. The Empire, once the envy of the continent, now struggled to maintain its position, as it sat in a weakened state as it slowly decayed under the weight of internal and external problems. Griffenheim, though still a city of impressive stature, now wore the weary look of a capital of an empire slowly dying.
Despite the fading glory, the city's streets were still alive with the hustle and bustle of its residents. But today, that life had come to a sudden halt. The appearance of the Light Screen earlier, appearing in a strange, divine, otherworldly, and mysterious way, had caused the citizens of Griffenheim to pause in alarm. Their heads turned upwards as the shimmering, flickering curtain of light filled the skies above. The streets, usually bustling with the noises of trade, chatter, and claws against the pavement, had quieted. Even the loudest of Griffons fell silent, eyes wide as they tried to make sense of what they're looking and hearing from the light screen from above them.
Within the Imperial Palace of Griffenheim, the heart of the empire's capital, the atmosphere was heavy with an air of quiet resignation. In the Imperial Garden, a once-beautiful retreat that had seen better days, a section of the garden was cordoned off, no longer accessible to the public or even the nobility. This area, once a place of vibrant blooms and imperial splendor, had become a quiet sanctuary reserved for those of the imperial royal family alone.
At the center of this solemn corner of the garden sat Emperor Grover V, his frail form resting heavily on a bench that had once been shared by him and his beloved wife, who had passed away years ago during childbirth. The bench, once meant for two, now held only the sickly emperor and his son, Grover VI, the heir to the throne and the last of his bloodline.
Grover V, though terminally ill, still carried the weight of the empire on his tired shoulders, even if his strength had waned with each passing day. His once-vibrant plumage had dulled, his feathers were falling in patches, and his presence back when he was young had become but a shadow of its former self. The illness had taken its toll on him, and the time he had left was short. His body felt weak, but his mind remained sharp, always focused on the future of the empire that had once been the pride of Griffonia.
Beside him sat his son, Grover VI, the young griffon who was destined to inherit whatever was left of a fading empire. His expression was one of quiet resolve, tempered by the knowledge of the burden that awaited him. Though he was still young, Grover VI knew that the day of his regency would come soon, perhaps sooner than anyone had anticipated. His father's declining health meant that Grover VI would be thrust into regency far earlier than most expected, just as his father had been in his own youth but younger. The weight of the crown, though still distant, seemed to press down on him already.
The two griffons sat in silence, side by side, their gazes drawn upward to the Light Screen above. The flickering things being shown by the light screen cast an odd glow over the garden, reflecting off the marble statues and the carefully tended flowers nearby, now wilting under the shadow of time and neglect. The Light Screen's strange showing felt foreign and unsettling, but they were the only distraction from the growing unease that hung in the air.
Missouri: Hey guys, nice to meet you. I'm Missouri, and I would like to become the 23rd state.
Northern Politician: Hey buddy, welcome to the nation. We'll be happy to accept you as a free state.
Southern Politician: Oh no, you don't. You're trying to get one over on us. Missouri is gonna be a slave state Okay, listen why don't we just ask Missouri what it wants to be...
Missouri: Slave state.
Northern Politician: Well, then allow me to introduce to you the newest freshest state on the scene, Maine.
Southern Politician: Hey, you can't do that.
Northern Politician: And you can't have any more slaves things about this line.
Southern Politician: What?
Northern Politician: The issue of slavery is solved and it will never come up again.
As Grover V's eyes and hearing remained focused on the light screen from above, yet his mind was elsewhere, lost in the weight of his own declining empire's history. His frail claws gripped the edge of the bench, his talons digging into the wood as if the act could anchor him to some part of the past that he could still understand. He didn't know exactly what a "state" was in the context of the Light Screen, but the concept seemed to carry the weight and significance of whatever is being shown and told.
But what caught his attention, what made his stomach tighten a little, was hearing the word "slave," in other words, "slavery." That, he knew all too well.
Grover V's thoughts drifted back to his family bloodline's darker past. His great-great-grandfather had been a griffon of great ambition and ruthlessness, one who had used prisoners of war as forced labor to construct the very capital they stood in now. The records had been meticulously documented in the Imperial Archives, records that Grover V had read with a mixture of regret and resignation. As much as he wished to forget the Griffonian Empire founder's legacy of exploitation and cruelty, he could not. It was a part of his family history and thus a part of him.
But Grover I, his great-great-grandfather, had later abolished slavery in his reign, replacing it with serfdom, though Grover V had always considered that a poor substitute. To him, serfdom was something a little better than slavery, a lesser evil form of oppression, but no less degrading. The suffering of the lower class continued, just under a different name. And that system had endured through the generations, from Grover II to himself, despite the promises of change.
Serfdom, slavery… Grover V's thoughts wandered. At least it's better than nothing, but is that really enough?
Meanwhile Grover VI, on the other hand, sat silently beside him, his young heart heavy with sorrow. For he knew enough to feel the burden of something inevitable. For he could see it in his father's eyes, the deep exhaustion, the weariness of a ruler who knew his time was short.
Grover VI didn't bother hearing or seeing what was being shown by the Light Screen the same way his father did. For him, it was not just as important as what he is feeling right now. For what he felt, though, was the tightness in his chest, the raw ache that had begun to grow with each passing day.
He glanced at his father, studying the sickly form beside him, the old griffon who is currently the emperor of the Griffonian Empire, now at present reduced to a frail shadow of what he once was during his youth due to his sickness, and it was hard to bear. His father, the very one who had always told him, "I will always be with you, my son," was fading before his eyes day by day.
The words echoed in his mind, hollow and distant. Always be with you... How could that be true when death loomed so near?
Grover VI wanted to cry. The weight of circumstances, of an empire's history, of a father's decline—it was too much for him to bear. But he would not cry. He could not. Not in front of his father nor in front of any griffon, for he had been raised to be better than a snotty, crying little chick, even in the face of heartbreak, for pride was a griffon's most sacred virtue, and he followed it, and he would not show weakness now, especially now when his father needed him to be strong.
But as he sat there, looking at the sickly figure of Grover V, Grover VI wished, for the first time, that he could be stupid, that he could be naive like the child he once was, who had believed in his father's words without question. He wanted to believe that his father would always be there, guiding him, protecting him. But that only happened in Pony Tales, and this is reality, and reality is often so cruel.
The pain in his heart, the ache of knowing the inevitable, was something he could not express. Not with words, not with tears. He simply sat in silence, beside his father, in this quiet moment that he would carry with him for the rest of his life.
Meanwhile, Grover V remained oblivious to the fact that his son was silently observing him, his young eyes filled with hidden grief as he watched his father's every move. Grover V, however, was completely engrossed in the light screen from above, his attention fixed on the shifting images and the voice narrating things.
A few years later, it came up again. You see, as America expanded westward, each new state or territory that was added threatened to up and the delicate balance between the slave and free States. If one faction managed to outnumber the other, it could gain an easy majority and force its own ideals on the opposing side leaving a huge portion of the population, feeling spiteful and depressed. For awhile compromises, kick the can down the road and kept the volatile balance in check as new free and slave states were roughly added in pairs but then one landmass mass state just had to barge in and ruin everything as usual.
Grover V's brows furrowed, the voice's explanation leaving him in a whirl of confusion. The concept of a "state," as presented by the light screen, was still somewhat unclear to him. He could grasp the rough idea, though it seemed similar to the River Coalition that's on the eastern side of the Griffonia continent. He's pretty much on where each new territory that joined as it expanded was considered a separate nation, yet still a part of the River Coalition. However, the concept of a "delicate balance" didn't align with his understanding of the River Coalition, where member states were free to maintain their autonomy without such divisions.
From what Grover V could recall, the River Coalition never had the same kind of balance between free and slave regions. The only member that practiced slavery, as far as he knew, was Diamond Mountain. This was where the ancestors of the dogs of the County of Bronzehill originally came from, as escaped slaves from Diamond Mountain, who had found refuge and land through his great-grandfather, Grover II.
And then there was Nimbusia, another member of the River Coalition, which had a caste system that left the non-pegasi at the bottom, their lives resembling slavery. If Grover V remembered correctly, these individuals were referred to as Helots. But still, it didn't feel quite the same. The balance of power in the nation the light screen was showing seemed more volatile, with the majority imposing its will on the opposing side, which was something completely foreign to him.
What really confused Grover V, though, was why the majority in this "state" had the power to impose its ideals on the minority. He'd initially thought that this nation, like the River Coalition, was a place where independent states coexisted. But he was quickly realizing how wrong he had been. In the River Coalition, there had never been any attempt to enforce ideals on its members. He could think of no instance where any member was forced to accept another's belief system or way of life. But here, according to what he was seeing on the light screen, it seemed like a majority was allowed to dominate the minority and make decisions that affected others.
His curiosity only deepened as the light screen continued its showing, and he couldn't help but wonder what this so-called "landmass state" was that barged in and upset the balance. Whatever it was, it seemed to have caused a significant disruption, and Grover V found himself increasingly hooked, eager to know more.
But before the Light Screen could continue, it suddenly began to flicker. It stuttered violently, appearing and disappearing from view in rapid succession, as though reality itself was struggling to keep it in place. The steady glow fractured into erratic flashes, light cutting in and out without warning.
Grover V frowned, confusion knitting his brow as his attention was pulled away from his thoughts. Beside him, Grover VI snapped out of his quiet observation as well, lifting his head sharply as both of them looked up toward the Light Screen hovering above the capital, now blinking in and out of existence in the skies above the capital.
What neither of the father and son duo knew was that this wasn't a local occurrence.
Across the world, every Light Screen was doing the same thing—flickering, destabilizing, vanishing, and reappearing without explanation. Capital cities of nations were witnessing the same phenomenon, all at once, for reasons unknown.
…Definitely not due to the work of the local divine…