It was a bright, sunny day at Riverstead Village, where children and teenagers ran freely, playing games and shouting with joy.
In the distance, a young boy pulled a cart full of wheat, watching enviously as the other kids played with a ball that had rolled to his feet.
He paused for a moment, considering joining them, but a stern voice called from behind, reminding him of his duties.
"Get back to work! I am not paying you for watching kids play."
The boy's shoulders slumped as he picked up the ball and tossed it back to the children. His gaze lingered on their carefree laughter for a moment longer before he turned back to the heavy cart.
The sun beat down on his brow, sweat glistening on his skin as he resumed his laborious task. Each step was a reminder of the life he was forced to endure—a life of servitude and solitude.
As the boy struggled to push the cart through the dusty streets, he couldn't shake off the harsh gazes of the villagers piercing into his back.
The whispers of the crowd only added to his unease. "I heard his father abandoned them," one person said. "That Lara boy, they say he's cursed."
Another warned others not to let their children near him. Some even suggested exiling him for being a burden caused by Rowan. These were just some of the rumors that followed him everywhere he went in the village.
Arriving at the mill, an elderly lady came towards him with a gentle gaze, a rarity in this village. "How is Lara, your mother?" she asked.
The young boy looked up at her with tears welling in his eyes. "She is not feeling well, ma'am," he replied softly. It was the truth; his mother was suffering from the worm plague that had left her bedridden for months.
It was the reason why he had to work so hard—to provide for their basic needs and pay for her medicine.
The old lady sighed heavily before handing him a loaf of bread. "Here, eat this. You look skinny, you probably didn't eat in days," she said. "I pray that she recovers soon."
With gratitude, the boy took the bread and watched as the woman walked away.
The scent of freshly baked bread filled his nose and his stomach growled with hunger.
He placed the bread in his cart and covered it with a piece of fabric. "Mom hasn't had anything to eat today, I'll save this for her," he thought to himself.
The wheat mill was an old, creaky building with a gigantic waterwheel that turned constantly, powering the grinding stones inside.
The boy made his way to the mill, pushing his cart along the rocky path. As he entered the cool, dark interior, he could feel the eerie silence washing over him.
The miller peered at him over his shoulder as he continued about his work, ignoring the boy as usual.
The boy knew better than to interrupt the gruff old man when he was in the midst of grinding.
He made his way to the back of the mill, where a pitchfork lay on the floor.
Picking it up, he used it to push the wheat into the feed hopper.
With each swing of the pitchfork, the wheat filled the hopper until it was overflowing.
Satisfied with his work, he climbed up onto a wooden platform and began to turn the large crank that fed the wheat into the grinding stones.
He turned the crank, grinding the wheat into fine flour.
And continued working until the crank became heavy, and his hands ached from the strain.
Panting, he climbed down from the platform and looked around for the miller.
"Hey! I need help with this!" The miller's voice echoed through the mill as he cried out for assistance.
The boy quickly made his way to where the miller stood, surrounded by various farm tools.
The old man pointed to a stack of tools. "You're going to need to clean up the mill," the miller said gruffly.
"It's been a while since anyone has done it, and the nugu beetles are getting pretty bad here."
The boy nodded, bracing himself for the task ahead. He grabbed a shovel and began clearing out the flour and husks that had accumulated around the millstones.
As he worked, he noticed the miller watching him closely. "You know, Aerovind, your father was a good man," the miller said softly, surprising the boy. "He used to help me out here all the time before going to war."
The boy paused in his work, looking up at the miller. "I know, sir," he replied, a note of sadness in his voice. "He was always talking about how much he loved working here."
"Well, Joseph and Albert need their sack soon. Don't forget them," the miller said, gesturing to a sack of wheat.
"Oh, and also there's a farmer who needs his grain ground before the markets close. Can you finish cleaning up and get the wheat milled?"
"Yes, sir," Aerovind replied, picking up his pace.
The boy worked steadily, shoveling the debris into a large pile and sweeping away the remaining dust and husks.
As he went about his task, he thought about his father and the kind words the miller had spoken.
Despite the harsh treatment he received from others in the village, it meant a lot to him to know that at least some people still remembered his father fondly.
After what seemed like an eternity, Aerovind finally finished cleaning up the mill. He grabbed the sack of wheat and poured it into the hopper, then started the mill once again.
The grinding stones turned slowly at first but soon picked up speed as the wheat was fed into them.
He watched in fascination as the hard kernels of wheat were transformed into fine flour, wondering how something so hard could be made so soft and fine.
As he continued to turn the crank, the miller came over and inspected the work. "Well done, Aerovind," he said, nodding approvingly. "Take the rest of the day off. You've earned it.