The next morning, I rise at the crack of dawn.

The first to greet me is not Ben, nor Mel, nor even Daisy. It is their elder, and he has a distrustful look on his face.

“Surprised ta see ya up at this hour. I was ‘specting you’d sleep in.” His tone is not one of surprise, but disdain.

“I’ve been rising early for a long time,” I answer.

He stares at me for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought. He opens his mouth, revealing some missing teeth. “Your hands. They’re rough. But not like mine. You’re not a trader, are ya?”

“No. I studied in Cinnabar.”

“Studied?” he spat. “You got that look in ya eyes, boy. I don’t believe you’re no scholar.”

“Studied the blade. Since I was six years of age.”

The old man sneers at my reply. “I saw a Blademaster once, on the battlefield,” he narrates, “and he was like a god. We couldn’t get near ‘im. He took all o’ mah brothers and mah leg that day.”

He trails off for a moment, a distant look in his eyes, then shakes his head. “I don’t want ya near my family, ya hear? Stay ‘way from Daisy.”

“I won’t be staying long,” I answer stiffly. “I’ve places to be.”

He snorts. “Anyway, Mel was looking for you.”

As he hobbles away with his cane, the words spill from my mouth. “Wait. Your leg. I … how did you deal with it?”

The old man turns to look me over with a heavy gaze. “And what’ve ya lost? Don’t see anything wrong.”

When I decline to explain further, he continues slowly. “Never did. Sometimes, it still hurts, and then I look at it, but there’s nothin’ there. You keep usin’ the blade, and it won’t end well for you, ya hear me?”

Perhaps only a fool would consult a common farmer on the matters of Aura. A fool like me. I wave him off and find Mel, who is far more friendly and upbeat. The first thing she does, after a polite greeting, is to inquire if I slept well, perhaps worried about her lack of hospitality—something I have been shown no shortage of in this household. It’s the one thing they do not lack. Were my own family so kind, I would not be trudging south to Cinnabar like a filthy vagrant. Perhaps my rejection of my uncle’s demands was too hasty—I dare say I should have taken the coins before leaving—but my pride will stand for no less.

“Excellent,” I answer her. “I’ve been on the road, and it’s good to finally have a place to sleep.” I make no mention of the rough bed and scratchy blanket, nor the loud bleating of the goat in the dead of the night, nor even the strange dreams plaguing me.

She beams at that, taking my words at face value. “Great. We were worried that ya might be hungry.”

“No. In fact, I was planning on leaving soon.” It wouldn’t be good to impose on this family any longer. I haven’t run out of rations yet.

“Actually,” she says, “we were hoping you’d stay the night. We were planning ta have a big meal before ya leave.”

It strikes me that they still feel embarrassed about serving such a meal to me last night, and hope to make a better showing tonight. I am not sure they can afford it. The tradition of northern hospitality is a strong one, however. Knowing how they feel, how can I refuse her invitation? Dignity has a bottom line, and some will defend it to the last. I know that too well.

“Very well. I’m afraid I will have to impose on you further. But I must insist on doing my part. Is there anything I can help out with?”

If only I had taken the damnable coins from my uncle, I would have paid them a small amount in recompense for their hospitality. As it is, this is all I have to offer.

“Oh, ‘course ya can. I’m ‘bout to go harvest some beets. How’d you like ta help?”

More beets? And to think that it was not so long ago that I was in Cinnabar, feasting on all manners of exotic seafood. How things have changed—dare I say that I’d even settle for some barsani now. But beggars can’t be choosers.

Mel leads me to a patch of what might generously be called ‘farmland’. There are rows of green shrubs. If they weren’t arranged in straight lines, I would have called them weeds. But I suppose even weeds can become food if you’re desperate enough …

I pray that these humble farmers never gaze upon the golden fields of the Obis, for they would surely weep in envy. Those are fertile lands; the breadbasket of the Empire for which a great many have spilled blood to control. So crucial to Korsa, in fact, that the capital was moved there at some point before my time. It should come as no surprise that the devotees of Hayley command great influence at her Grand Temple there, more than anywhere else in the Empire. I read about one instance long ago when the spring rites had been interrupted by war. Enraged, the Mother Goddess had inflicted a great famine, and as a result, countless Korsans had starved. All of this, of course, is history, but only a fool repeats the mistakes of his ancestors.

“Rory,” Mel calls out, “ever harvest beets before?”

“No,” I answer. “Never in my life. But I’m a quick learner, or so I’ve been told.”

She smiles. “Alright. Just watch me.”

“Sure.” I nod. “But where are the beets?”

I am not a farmer. Not once in my life, have I tilled the land. In fact, it would not be an exaggeration to say that extent of my communion with Hayley has been at meal time prayers. After all, for one who follows the path of the blade, Renol is the natural choice for a patron god. In any case, last night may have been my first time eating beets. But that does not make me blind. I see no beets here, only shrubs.

Upon hearing my question, Mel has a coughing fit, covering her mouth with one hand. As she gives me an odd look, I cannot help but sympathize—in horrid conditions like these, with neither Aura to fortify the body nor a physician to prescribe medicine, sickness must take a heavy toll. But discretion is the better part of valor, and without the ability to help, I elect to avoid the sensitive topic. I will offer a prayer tonight on her behalf.

“Er … they’re right there,” she explains, “in the ground. Look, like this.” She reaches down and grips the bottom of a shrub, effortlessly pulling out the plant with a soft ‘pop’.

I am not a farmer.

She sets it down at her feet. It is fist-sized and a reddish-purple; the same color as the chunky blocks I ate last night. It tapers to an end at the bottom, like a branch. From the top, however, it looks like a normal plant, with stems and green leaves. Compared to the long stem and giant leaves, the beet appears tiny, barely worth the effort to grow and harvest. It occurs to me that this is what a root vegetable looks like. I had heard that some plants grew underground, but I had never actually seen it in person …

There is a first time for everything.

Under Mel’s watchful gaze, I reach down and grab the plant in a similar fashion, pulling it out of the dirt. Satisfaction turns to dread as I notice just how small this beet is; perhaps barely larger than an eye.

“I think I may have pulled it incorrectly,” I admit. The results are obvious to the eye.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Nah. That’s just how some of ‘em are like. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“But it’s so small. There’s hardly anything to eat!”

“Ah. It’s not just the beet. We eat it all, stem and leaves too.”

My thoughts turn toward the ‘dandelion soup’ I was served, and I can’t help but frown. These people truly live miserable lives, forced to gnaw upon leaves in absence of real foods. But they have little else, and if the alternative is starvation, I suppose there is no other choice.

Even at Grandfather’s funeral, there was a lack of fresh foods. Near everything was smoked or salted, with few spices in sight. It’s another thing to keep in mind. When I return, there will be change. It is an affront to my dignity, to live in the most powerful empire in the world, and yet have my own people live in abject poverty.

As we continue to pull the beets in silence, I take the opportunity to ask Mel a few questions to better understand the state of my lands. The answers are less than welcome, though I do not blame her.

Having grown up in Cinnabar, I know all too well the importance of trade. The Obis River Delta, for instance, produces grain in vast quantities, enough to feed the entire population of the capital city of Kess twice over, and still have enough left over to export and sell. Dorban, by contrast, is where a great many blacksmiths call their home. This is because most of the metal from the nearby mines are transported there to be refined and forged. As such, it is not uncommon to find grain from the former end up in the latter, or weapons and tools from the latter in the former. Of course, that is not to say that there are no farmers in Dorban or blacksmiths in Kess, but the difference is clear. And that is merely within the borders of the Korsan Empire!

You can always tell when someone is a first-time visitor to a Cinnabarn market by the way his head will turn this way and that, overwhelmed by the sheer variety of goods on display, as a pickpocket takes advantage of his distraction and robs him blind. Perhaps the most widely traded goods are the vast array of spices, mostly from islands to the south-west of Korsa, which make Cinnabarn cuisine a unique experience. You can also find exotic, curved swords with a wave pattern from the Madana Desert, intricate Galatian jewelry, or even strange animals from Veran.

But what resources do my lands produce? What do my people have to offer? Nothing but misery and hardship. In fact, Mel tells me that it’s not uncommon for some young men around these parts to become a sellsword and go to Veran to earn money before returning home after a decade or two, if at all. She claims to have heard that people from these parts have a better reputation for soldiery, due to the tougher living conditions they grow up with. I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but it’s not a story that settles well with me. In fact, it fills me with fury.

A sellsword is the lowest of the low, a slave to money, someone who you cannot trust. Unlike a knight or even a soldier, a sellsword is loyal only to coin. There are mercenary companies of some repute that claim to honor a contract, even refusing to be paid off, but I do not buy it. They swear no oaths and live a life without honor.

In any case, it is disappointing to hear that so many of my subjects see no better alternative but to turn to a dishonest living. In my childhood, I remember Grandfather mentioned a large salt mine in the Wilbor domain that provided many jobs and no small amount of coin for our family. It strikes me how far my family have fallen, with years of neglect and failure in stewardship. And yet, I must admit that I have not taken a look at how things are being run back home. One can only wonder what damage my uncle has inflicted.

It’s not long before Mel looks up at the sky, as if spotting a hidden signal, then turns to me. “Daisy should be milking the goat ‘round ‘bout now. How’d ya like ta help?”

“I’d be glad to,” I answer, and depart for the house, a basket of beets in hand.

In contrast to her mother, Daisy is quiet and unforthcoming. She acknowledges my presence with a simple nod, before motioning for me to stand to the side as she milks the goat, a trickle of pearly, white liquid squirting out from underneath the goat’s stomach and into a bucket.

I clear my throat and offer to help, only to receive a skeptical glance.

“You sure?” she asks. “S’not as easy as it looks, y’know.”

I snort, electing not to voice my opinion on her lack of confidence in my ability. I have travelled across the Empire, from Dorban, the old capital, to Kess, the new one. I have lived far south in Cinnabar, the famed city of trade, and even visited Galatia, a strange and eccentric kingdom subordinate to Korsa.

It is true that I have barely scratched the surface. I have yet to visit Veran, the southern continent, or travel to the distant east, where the Citadel and its walls guard our borders. There are also innumerable islands to the west, and small nations like Skeld to our north. But needs must, and so these plans must be delayed until I have resolved the turmoil at home and my uncle’s greed. After all, I still have many years ahead of me.

And so, to raise concerns over something as simple as milking a goat? It is laughable at best. Really, how hard can it be?

But it is not her fault. For a common peasant girl, this is her life. It is all she has ever known. The turmoil in the capital, the wars, even my own family’s internal strife—they have no meaning to her. I wonder if their lives would even change if the Korsan Empire were to be invaded and the emperor himself toppled from the throne! It is a traitorous thought, but imperial authority holds little sway this far north.

Upon my insistence, she moves to the side and allows me to approach. Doing my best to follow her example, I reach out with a hand to grasp the goat’s udders, giving it a squeeze.

Quite simple, really.

And then the world goes black.