Eastern Labour Camps

The Eastern Labour Camps stretch across a windswept expanse of industrial wasteland, their barren horizon broken only by the silhouettes of smokestacks and chain-link fences topped with coiled razor wire. The air carries the acrid tang of smelting operations and the sour stench of unwashed bodies, the latter clinging to the collars of threadbare uniforms issued by the regime. Dilapidated dormitories squat in rigid rows, their windows boarded or missing entirely, while watchtowers project the sterile gleam of floodlights over a landscape designed to break human dignity. Inside, cavernous workshops echo with the rhythmic clatter of forced labor—mining, smelting, fabrication—any work that sustains the industrial machine that props up Morgus’ regime. The guards move with casual brutality, their presence underscoring that survival here is conditional, conditional on obedience to regimes of production that reduce men and women to the sum of their labor. Political prisoners vanish into these camps never to reappear, their names stricken from official records, their suffering cataloged only in hushed voices.