Two days of travelling, and I’ve learned one thing—water is all too scarce in the North.

Down south, in Cinnabar, water is as abundant as air. Despite being a small island with no major natural freshwater sources, there are never fears of a water shortage, courtesy of a large aqueduct to the continent. The city is sprinkled with water fountains and divided by a number of canals, from which ships stream in and out to the harbor, carrying goods from all over Korsa, and even distant lands. For that reason, some say that the Mizzen Trading House is the most powerful of the Big Six, and I believe it. Water is the lifeblood of Cinnabar, ‘where money flows’, or so the saying goes.

In the North, however, things are different.

There is no trade here, unless you count the occasional peddler roaming from village to village. The only ships in waters this far north are small fishing boats. The furthest north that most merchant ships usually go in Korsa is Dorban, the old capital, because there are no major Korsan ports or trading hubs beyond that. From Dorban, I’ve heard some ships continue north to Skeld, but always sail right past the rest of Korsa, where my family’s lands happen to be.

In any case, it hasn’t rained for the past few days, or even once since I’ve returned to the North, which has led me to my current predicament.

I knock on the door, rapping my knuckles twice against the wood.

I can hear footsteps grow closer and closer, until the door opens, revealing a man with a sunbeaten face.

“Good evening. Could you spare a cup of water for a traveler?”

“Oh, not from around here, are ya? Why don’cha come in.”

“Much appreciated,” I say, stepping over the threshold.

It’s a small and cozy home, with not much in the way of furniture. There’s a table and a few chairs, all roughly made from wood. As I enter, the pleasant smell of food being cooked wafts my way. My stomach growls in response.

“We were just ‘bout to have dinner,” explains the man. “You wanna join us?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

They pull up a chair for me, and I join the table.

“Name’s Ben,” he introduces, and I learn that he has a 14-year-old daughter named Daisy, and a wife named Mel. It’s not long before the food is ready, and Mel brings it over to the table. An old man with only one leg—Daisy’s grandfather—hobbles over to join us.

And when the food is laid out, I cannot help but stare.

Beets. Bread. Soup.

It is pitiful. There is not enough for four, let alone five. I am not a visitor, but a burden. Another mouth to feed.

“Actually, I’m not sure I can stay for a full meal,” I comment. “I’m in a hurry. Perhaps I’ll just have a little bit of soup.”

Hearing my words, Mel’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “No, it’s fine,” she protests. “We’d love to have ya stay. Just wasn’t expecting guests, is all.”

Their embarrassment is my humiliation. Their hunger is my shame. This is my land. These are my people. To know that they live like this … is this what you call ‘taking care of the family lands’, Uncle?

Any lord worth his salt knows that there is an unspoken contract between the common folk and nobility; the former pay their dues, the latter provide protection and stewardship. One cannot be had without the other.

And when they offer a prayer before eating to Hayley, the goddess of the harvest, I clench my fists. They turn their gaze upwards to the Heavens to seek assistance, when their lord stands before them, helpless to act as they flounder in poverty.

What they need is a lord who will lead. A lord to protect them from conflict. A lord to shelter them from disaster.

One day, I will be that lord.

They dig in, reaching out and grabbing chunks of beets and pieces of bread, which they dip in the soup, and Ben notices that I have yet to move.

With a glance down at my hands, he stops and smiles weakly, looking self-conscious.

“Ah, we always eat with our hands. But if ya want some cutlery, I think maybe we got some in the back.”

And again, it hits like a blow to my gut, and I laugh it off.

“Oh, no, it’s fine. I’ve no problem eating with my hands. Thank you for the meal.”

I reach out, dipping a piece of bread into the soup, and place it in my mouth.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

It’s rye bread. Coarse and tough, it’s nothing like the famous golden wheat bread fired in the brick ovens of Cinnabar, or the countless other exotic breads that can be found in the South.

“What do you think of the soup?” eagerly asks Mel.

It’s disgusting. The greens floating in it are chewy, like I’m gnawing away at rope, and the soup is bland. No spices either.

But I smile anyways, and say, “it’s not bad. What did you put in?”

“It’s dandelion soup. Plus a few other plants we found. It’s good for your health.”

No wonder. It’s a soup made from common weeds.

“So, is this what you typically eat?”

“Sometimes we got meat,” interjects Daisy.

“I go hunting when I can,” explains Ben. “Depends on what we can forage, too.”

So they eat like this every day. It is a sad state of affairs, and I suspect it is no exception to the norm around here.

Ben continues, “But enough ‘bout us. You look like you’ve been ‘round places, got any news to share?”

This, I can do. One does not live in Cinnabar, the most prosperous city on the whole continent of Faylen, and remain ignorant to the world. Besides, mere words are a small price to pay for their generosity.

“Last time I was in Cinnabar, I heard that Prince Damian routed the Darian army in battle. They say we’re going to have another colony there soon.”

“Another war,” mumbles the old grandpa. “Seems like things haven’t changed. The Empire’s always pickin’ fights everywhere.”

“Who’s Prince Damian?” Daisy pipes up.

I take a sip of water. It tastes as if somebody left a rusty nail in it for days.

“He’s our crown prince, Daisy,” I explain. “The next Emperor.”

“How ‘bout something a little closer to home?” asks Ben. “There’s been no rain for months, an’ I was wonderin’ if ya might have heard anything ‘bout the lord. The crops aren’t doin’ well, and this winter’s gonna be tough. Been hopin’ he’ll lower taxes. It’s been so high lately …”

“What do you mean by that? As far as I’m aware, taxes are fairly low here.”

The Wilbor lands may be barren and desolate, but if there is one thing to take pride in, it’s the fact that Grandfather was never unfair. What point is there in taxing people who have little to give? It is little better than an exercise in misery, a short-sighted attempt to squeeze blood from a stone.

“Aye, it used to be that way. But a few years ago, the lord started raisin’ it, and it’s gone up every year. We’re paying three fifths to the collector now, and I’m ‘fraid it’s gonna go up again next year.”

I slam my cup down on the table, causing water to slosh out.

“Three fifths? That’s ridiculous! How could you possibly survive on that?”

Mel shrugs. “We make do with what we have, y’know? Some foraging here, some hunting there.”

“I always thought ol’ Mad Boar was one of us,” complains the old grandpa. “Wasn’t he supposed to be a commoner like us, once? Just goes to show, can’t trust ‘em nobles.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard? Boris Wilbor passed away recently.”

There is a heavy silence.

“No wonder things are goin’ downhill,” he continues. “Born a noble, always a noble, I say. You can’t trust the rest of ‘em Wilbors, just like any other nobles. They don’t care about people like us.”

Mel sighs, looking down at her empty bowl of soup. Her forehead is wrinkled and her cheeks are gaunt. The rest of the family look dangerously thin as well.

“Things are going to get tight. I’m not sure how we’re going to make ends meet.”

“Then … why do you stay?” I ask curiously.

When it comes to prestige, the Korsan Empire is second to none. Everyone knows the Obis Delta, the abundant breadbasket that feeds half the Empire alone. I have seen the endless fields of golden wheat, and it is every bit as spectacular as they claim. They talk of Dorban’s beautiful historical buildings and deep heritage. And, of course, the magnificent splendor of Kess, the capital of Korsa, where the Emperor resides.

But nowhere do they mention the Northern Corridor. Nobody talks about the Wilbor lands, because there is nothing here but poverty and bleak emptiness. They leave to seek better opportunities, as I did.

They stare at me. There is another lengthy silence. Ben speaks up. “No matter what happens, this is my home. My father lived here, and his father too. I’ll be damned if I let anyone drive me out.”

At a loss for words, I stare at him, not understanding his attachment to a barren, desolate wasteland. But he is dead serious, with intensity as a swordsman I once saw walk to a duel to the death.

“It’s getting’ late,” interrupts Mel, breaking the tension. “Would ya like to stay for the night, Rory? It’s not safe travellin’ on the main road at night.”

“I’d love to take you up on that offer.”

It is not long before the family go to bed. With the arrival of dusk, there is little that can be done in the dark, with nary a candle to be found. A part of me wonders how it would look to illuminate an entire city at night, before dismissing it as a fanciful thought. Not even Cinnabar could afford such an extravagant act.

Weary from the journey, I stare at an unfamiliar ceiling and gradually fall asleep.

----------------------------------------

I stumble along, staring up at the giant monoliths of metal and glass that soar impossibly into the sky, so high that I must tilt my head back to see where they end. No sun hangs in the night sky—barren and empty of stars—and yet it is bright as day, light radiating from the top of poles and even the buildings themselves, as if to defy the night. At my feet, the path is smoothly paved, an unbroken river of grey; so unlike the muddy footpaths laden with droppings in Kess, or even Cinnabar.

And to my side, an unending stream of horseless carriages pass by; great, hulking beasts perfectly forged from metal and glass. Those, too, radiate light from the front, so brightly that I am forced to look away or court blindness. Even a brief glance leaves motes dancing in my vision.

When I take a step back, shying away from the powerful beams of light, I notice an unending crowd of people, perhaps hundreds or even thousands flowing past me, like the flooded banks of the Obis River. Never have I seen so many people packed together so closely. There is noise and chatter, vibrant and encompassing. On the far side of each footpath lining the road, at the foot of the buildings, there are shops with no walls, openly displaying their wares.

When I cut my way across the footpath and reach out to touch a faceless, human-shaped statue adorned in fine clothes, I realize the truth. These shops have not foregone walls. No, they use glass, so clear and flawless that it cannot be seen. The glass even extends from one end of the shop to the other, at least thrice my height in distance. It must cost a fortune. And yet every shop I can see on the street is adorned in such a manner, as if the glass is as cheap as unworked stone.

And that is not all. There are paintings behind the glass, impossible masterpieces which depict clothes, food, and many other objects that look indistinguishable from reality, as if someone had placed the object directly into the canvas.

Everywhere I look, unimaginable marvels catch my eye.

Is this the land of the Gods?