Mountain
In the centre of our country, the very heart, there is a small village known only as Stronghold. It is beyond any major city, out of reach for prying eyes or oppressive laws. This village was build, not in protest of metropolises, but in celebration of true community.

There was no major highway to Stronghold. The closest fairway was 17 km away, and the sign announcing the turn off was damaged from a winter storm, not likely to ever be repaired. The citizens didn’t mind it. Their rare visits to the city were for supplies they could not produce on their own, and, at that, the visits were diminishing as the years went by.

Stronghold had no mayor; it had a council of members who made the decisions to help improve the village. No one was ever elected; it was simply the strongest who naturally took the roles of leaders. They decided where the small industrial businesses would arrange themselves, where the residences would be located, and if someone was allowed to move to Stronghold.

It was into this closed community, this Stronghold, which I ventured one day. Little did I know it would be the beginning of the end.

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