The streets outside the Armstrong duchy had beco a boiling pot of unrest and desperation.
As more refugees poured in from the poisoned farmlands and villages, the Duke’s estate had taken them in by the hundreds.
The grand halls, once reserved for nobility and staff, had beco makeshift sleeping quarters, while the outer gardens had turned into crowded campsites.
At first, the people were grateful. Food was distributed. Shelter provided. Hope offered.
But that gratitude quickly began to rot.
Whispers spread. Accusations followed. So of the refugees, hungry and sick, began to bla the Duke’s family.
"They knew this was coming! That’s why they had supplies stockpiled!"
"It’s because of nobles like them that the gods are angry!"
Others, however, rose in defense of their benefactors.
"Don’t be stupid—they’re the only reason we’re alive right now!"
"Go ahead, leave if you think you can survive out there alone!"
What started as words eventually escalated into fistfights. Minor skirmishes broke out daily, and while the guards did their best to separate them, the tension was unrelenting.
Nigel stood near the second-floor window of his father’s office, looking down at the estate’s inner courtyard, which was now crowded with bickering civilians.
His fists were clenched tightly behind his back.
"It’s never-ending."
He muttered.
The Duke sat calmly behind his desk, sipping tea, eyes cast over a set of maps and reports.
"Of course it is. That is the nature of fear. It spreads like fire."
Nigel turned to face him, his voice tight.
"But we should do sothing. They’re turning on each other!"
"Let them. Until they tire themselves out."
The Duke said, setting his cup down.
Nigel frowned.
"You can’t an that."
"I an, that you cannot control panic with good intentions. If you try to put out every fla yourself, you’ll burn before they do."
His father said sharply.
Nigel opened his mouth to argue again but couldn’t find the words. He knew his father was trying to teach him sothing—so lesson in leadership—but right now, it just felt like apathy.
The weight in his chest grew heavier. His heart pounded, and his thoughts spun.
He knew that the best course of action was to stay calm, to wait and watch, but his anxiety clamped down on his lungs like iron chains. Every mont felt wasted.
A knock at the door broke the silence. It opened gently, and Bernard, their aged butler, stepped inside with practiced grace.
"Young Master...Lord Kyle has been spotted at the outer edge of the territory. He will arrive at the estate in a few hours."
Bernard said, voice low but steady,
Nigel blinked.
"Kyle’s... coming back?"
The relief hit him like a wave. His shoulders sagged, and for a mont, he allowed himself a breath of ease.
But the Duke didn’t miss a beat.
"Don’t look so relieved. You’re the heir to this house, Nigel. Not Kyle."
Nigel straightened again.
"Yes, Father."
"You must learn to handle this chaos, even when you feel helpless. There will co a ti when no one answers your summons. No one cos back. What then?"
The Duke continued.
Nigel nodded slowly, guilt flickering in his chest.
Outside, the wind picked up. Distant shouting echoed through the mansion walls.
anwhile, miles away, Kyle stood atop a muddy ridge overlooking the Armstrong duchy.
The sight before him was grim.
Once-proud hos near the edges of the land now sat abandoned. Windows were broken, doors left swinging open.
Whole stretches of farmland were barren, eaten away by the cursed rain and divine corruption that blanketed the region. Smoke from distant cookfires rose sluggishly into the gray sky.
Even the usually bustling inner roadways were subdued. People no longer walked—they trudged.
Bruce and lissa stood beside him.
"This is bad. Worse than we expected."
Bruce muttered, his eyes scanning the lifeless horizon.
lissa said nothing. Her gaze was locked on the manor in the distance, its spires now surrounded by tents and watchfires.
"They’ve turned the estate into a fortress."
Kyle nodded.
"They had no choice."
He could feel it now—waves of divine pressure swirling in the sky, thicker here than they were in the other regions. Whatever was happening wasn’t just chaos. It was targeted. Purposeful.
And now the Armstrong land stood on the front line.
He exhaled and stepped forward.
"Let’s go. There’s no more ti to wait."
He said.
The carriage jolted to a sudden stop.
Bruce yanked the reins hard, the horses rearing in surprise as sothing — no, soone — threw themselves directly into their path.
The wooden wheels groaned, halting inches before crushing the crumpled figure lying on the muddy road.
lissa jumped up, hand already on her dagger, but Kyle raised a hand calmly.
"Wait."
The figure on the ground stirred. Slowly, shakily, an elder man pushed himself up to his knees, hands trembling as he looked up at the trio with hollow, sunken eyes.
His face was gaunt, his skin stained with dirt and dried tears. His clothes were torn, soaked in the mud of the road.
There was no panic in his expression — only a hollow, heavy despair.
Bruce climbed down with a scowl, stomping toward the man.
"Are you insane? You could’ve been crushed. What the hell do you think you’re doing, throwing yourself in front of a moving cart like that?"
The man didn’t flinch. He gave a broken, hopeless smile.
"Would that really be so bad?"
lissa’s brows furrowed, and Kyle’s eyes narrowed.
The elder man looked up at them, voice cracking as he spoke.
"I’ve lived long enough to watch my farm die, my wife cough blood until she couldn’t breathe anymore... My grandchildren fled to the city and never returned. I’ve nothing left but rotting mories and dirt that won’t grow a damn thing."
He raised a shaking hand toward the sky, the dark clouds swirling faintly with divine energy above.
"If this is what the gods have given us... then maybe it’s better to die now. No more waiting for blessings that never co. No more pretending we can still fight."
Bruce clicked his tongue, folding his arms.
"So you’re giving up? Just like that?"
The man let out a dry, bitter chuckle.
"What would you have do? Plant in cursed soil? Pray louder? Beg on my knees while my stomach eats itself?"
Kyle remained silent for a mont, his gaze never leaving the man’s face.
Then, he slowly stepped off the cart and walked forward, kneeling before the elder man so they t eye to eye.
"You’re right. The gods have cursed this land. But do you think your death will undo that?"
Kyle said quietly.
The man blinked.
Kyle’s voice hardened.
"If you’re so ready to die, then die fighting. Not under a carriage wheel. Not with empty hands and tears. If they’ve cursed you, then curse them back. Spit in their face."
The old man’s lips trembled.
"What if I don’t have the strength?"
"Then borrow mine. We’re not done yet."
Kyle said.
Silence fell over the road.
lissa stepped down beside Bruce, both watching wordlessly.
The man’s hands shook — but slowly, he bowed his head.
"...I’ll try."
He whispered.
Kyle stood, offering him a hand.
"If you still cannot live on, then co and fine . I will end it for you."
Reviews
All reviews (0)