A harsh season of marble yams is considered a famine, in other territories, but not here. These marble yams are both a luxury and a commodity. From seed to crop, the price grows tenfold and is closely monitored by the capital.

Now, our leader, Morisse Ourada, was a hardy farmer and an even shrewder businessman. With no connections to the top brass, he made sure we had our money's worth in the harvests. However, like all brilliant minds that shine out here, greed and envy were quick to make him disappear.

He was the only person I looked up to, and with his absence the rest of the collective took to defend themselves—every man for himself, once again. 

From that moment, each strike of the soil was a step towards a better life. Each seed that I put in the ground was a chance at the former life. Each crop yield that I pull out, a glimpse of Morisse and his crooked smile, pushing us on.

Looking back at it now, Morisse would've liked it if I left. There was no life for me, farming a gold crop. He told me that I'd sooner amass a fortune being a soldier than a farmer. It pains me to admit that he was right. The Yurriachem recruited people from all walks of life and trained them to become soldiers. Our principles fall under justice, efficiency, and territorial pride.

There are things I can't put into writing, the Yurriachem keeps its secrets well-kept, and expects us to uphold it. Each of us are given twin daggers and the standard outfit of the Polaris military. For my physique I was chosen to be part of the scouts branch of Yurriachem called the Marble Ravens.

Days became weeks, and months blurred into years. My training slowly turned me into a different person, molded by Yurriachem's standards of an arcane soldier. I could do things I previously didn't—I could command simple magic, fight with weapons, read, and also write, as I am doing so now.

Morisse, I wonder how you'd look at me now. With pride? Disappointment? I guess I will never know. But if it means anything, even if nobody is going to read this other than me, you were like a father to me. I promised myself that I would stop reminiscing about the time I was a farmer.

I am a soldier, and the territory of Yurriach is my priority now, as a scout of the Yurriachem. If you are alive — and I hope you are — I will find you and exact justice on the greedy and jealous vieyads that made you disappear.

—Sgt. Alan Melnyk