When I open my eyes, I see the grey skies of the Northern Corridor. It’s grown to be a depressingly familiar sight. My introspection lasts but a moment, broken by a few muffled snorts, then tinkling laughter.

Bessy the goat mercilessly chews on my clothes, while Daisy covers her mouth, failing to hide her amusement. And to think that only a few months ago, I was a noble studying the blade at a prestigious school … how the mighty have fallen.

“Rory, are you okay?”

With a grunt, I get back up, giving the goat a dirty look.

“Bessy is normally gentle,” Daisy explains, “but I guess you’re bad with animals! You gotta be more gentle to Bessy.”

“I’ll show her gentle,” I vow, refusing to let a damned goat get the better of me.

“Come over here,” she says, “lemme show you.”

As I cautiously inch over, keeping a watchful eye on the treacherous goat, Daisy reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me over to the goat. With one hand firmly gripping an udder, she squeezes with a sort of pulling motion.

“You see how it’s done, right? Now you try.”

I reach out hesitantly, ready to dodge at any moment, and Daisy places a hand over mine. Her calluses hint at years of hard work, nothing like those nobles who have never lifted anything heavier than a coin pouch for fear of rough skin or a chipped nail. In fact, I happen to have seen some who delegate even that task to a servant. One can only wonder who in their right mind would willingly inconvenience themselves in such a ridiculous manner to flaunt their wealth.

“Is that how you were holding it before?”

“Yes. Like the hilt of a sword, I suppose.”

“Well, I’ve never held a sword before. But a sword is like a shovel, right? Rigid and stiff. But Bessy’s not like that. Try it like this.”

And miraculously, milk squirts out, splashing into the bucket below. Lo and behold, have I become a common farmer. Grandfather, you need not worry any longer. Even if this disgraceful grandson of yours fails to reclaim the family lands, at the very least he won’t starve!

I let out a sigh, staring forlornly at the goat udder in my hand. Daisy nudges me with an elbow, interrupting my thoughts.

“Hey, Rory. Have a taste.”

“Huh?”

“You wanna have a try?”

There is something inappropriate about drinking milk directly from an animal. It does not befit one of my background. And yet, for some reason, I bend down, taking in a mouthful of milk.

“How is it?”

It’s an unfamiliar taste. Strong, too. For one reason or another, most people in Korsa do not consume goat milk. Certainly, some eat goat cheese, but you would be hard-pressed to find fresh milk in Cinnabar, at the very least. I swallow carefully, feeling the creamy liquid slide down my throat.

“I … I don’t know.”

“Well, we’ll be havin’ some for dinner.”

When evening comes, Ben brings home a guest for dinner. Except this one is going on the table.

It’s a furry, brown little thing. Scrawny, with sharp teeth. Not what I’d imagined a rabbit to look like. Certainly, I’ve eaten rabbit before, but I had the impression that they were hapless and gentle creatures. After all, I’d once heard that the heiress to the Taniss Trading House had been raising a pet rabbit.

Mel generously brushes off my offer to assist in the kitchen, and one by one, dishes flow out.

True to Daisy’s words, there is a small cup of goat milk for each of us—perhaps barely enough for a few sips—but fresh and creamy.

And that is not all. Though the bread remains the same, it must be understood that it is nothing more than a compliment to the soup, to be dipped and eaten together. And this time, they’ve cooked rabbit soup. Perhaps it is not pork or chicken, but it is meat nonetheless.

To round off the spread, there is an assortment of vegetables and fruit picked from the surrounding area—berries of some sort, and a handful of plants I cannot recognize, let alone name. In any case, I assume they must be safe to consume, seeing as nothing has happened to them after all these years.

In a restaurant in Cinnabar, this would be peasant fare. But tonight, here and now, it is a veritable feast. And best of all, no dandelions.

And yet, I cannot enjoy the moment. A sense of unease lurks in the back of my mind. Perhaps in another time and place, if I were born a common farmer, this would be my life. But it is a fragile illusion, a brief glimpse into what could have been and not what will be. No matter where I go or what I do, the name Wilbor will follow me.

Later that night, Daisy’s father, Ben, visits me.

After some small talk, he makes a suggestion. “Daisy … she gets along with ya. Thought ‘bout staying a bit longer?”

“Daisy is very lovely, but I can’t do that, Ben. I … I’m not a farmer. I can’t.”

He shrugs. “No one’s born a farmer, y’know. You can learn. Just sayin’.”

“It’s not that. I have places to be. I can’t stay here, you understand?”

He stares at me, then grins. “Yeah, I figured. You got that look in yer eyes, y’know. People like you … they either make it real big, or die tryin’. Just thought I’d ask.”

He looks up at the ceiling, exhaling. “I had a brother, y’know? Older than me. He wanted to make it big. Left for Veran. Never heard from ‘im since. Could’ve settled down here, but wanted to leave no matter what. Kinda reminds me of you.”’

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ben.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Don’t mind it. I was just sayin’. You’re not a trader, are you?”

“I—”

“No, no,” he repeats. “I don’t need ta know. Just take care o’ yourself, you hear? I’ll leave you to rest now. You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

As I watch his retreating back, a feeling of melancholy descends on me.

The only family I had left in this world was my grandfather and now he is gone. Even old, reliable Bern has shown his true colors. I am alone.

For the first time in my life, that infinite wellspring of confidence begins to run dry. My heart trembles. My conviction falters.

What if I fail?

I curl up, feeling my cheeks grow wet and curse the leaky roof. Tonight, no bleating goat interrupts my slumber; only dead silence. A part of me would not mind hearing Bessy again.

As I lie in bed, occupied by countless thoughts and unable to sleep, it strikes me like lightning. My Aura inexplicably gone; a decade of training gone to waste. Grandfather departed; the family lands seized. The sooner I reach Cinnabar, the sooner I can return home to deal with things. To show my uncle that he’s made a terrible mistake.

What have I been doing? This is no time to rest. I’m losing my edge. At this rate, I fear that I might grow fat and lazy like my uncle.

After all, even the sharpest of blades can dull.

Each moment that passes, each day I delay, my drive erodes and my meager resources dwindle.

I know my purpose. I am not lost, merely impeded.

The time to leave is now. I’ve overstayed my welcome.

But I will be back.

I’m coming for you, Uncle.

Next stop, Dorban.