Back in the village, life for the peasants was a daily grind of toil and endurance, the kind that had repeated itself for generations. The sun rose and set on the same well-trodden fields, and the villagers, bound by the land, lived their lives under the weight of invisible chains. For as long as Aria could remember, her adoptive mother, Mira, had been her constant—her rock in an unrelenting world.
Mira was a woman of quiet strength, weathered but beautiful, with the kind of grace that came from surviving in a world that cared little for those who tilled its soil. She had taken in Aria when she was no more than a frightened, lost child, barely old enough to understand the tragedy that had orphaned her. Mira had fed her, clothed her, and most importantly, loved her, with a love that was pure and unconditional, as if Aria had always been hers.
Despite the hardships Mira had faced at the hands of the landlords—the self-proclaimed lords of Terrafirma—she had never lost her sense of compassion. Mira believed in the simple virtues of kindness and forgiveness. She taught Aria that no matter how much cruelty they faced, their humanity must remain intact. "Kindness, my love, is not a weakness," she would say, her hands coarse and cracked from the endless work in the fields. "It's our greatest strength. The world will try to break you, but it is in how we rise from the ashes that we find our grace."
These words, spoken by Mira's gentle voice, had stayed with Aria throughout her life. Yet, there were days when the injustice of it all gnawed at her, when the weight of the landlords' cruelty felt too heavy to bear. The overseers, thugs hired by the local lords, patrolled the village as though it were their personal fiefdom, barking orders and extracting from the villagers whatever they desired—whether it was food, labor, or dignity.
Aria often struggled with the lessons of tolerance Mira had tried to instill. To Aria, the landlords were not just cruel men—they were monsters who took everything and gave nothing in return. She had seen too many times the way they treated the villagers as property, stripping them of their humanity as they took the best of the harvest and left the peasants with scraps. Their allegiance to the Emperor made them feel invincible, untouchable, as if their deeds were sanctioned by the very heavens.
One of the worst offenders was Lord Darian, a rotund, arrogant man who rarely set foot outside his manor, but whose presence loomed over the village like a dark cloud. When he did arrive, his visits were always accompanied by fanfare—his carriage pulled by a gleaming mechanical beast, flanked by overseers in armor, their eyes scanning the villagers with contempt.
To Darian and his kind, Mira and Aria were less than people. They were tools, cogs in the great machine of Empire, necessary only to produce food and resources for the elite. Darian often boasted of his family's long history of service to the Emperor, as if that alone made him above reproach. "We serve the Emperor and his legacy," Darian would sneer when the villagers complained. "It is through men like me that order is maintained. Without us, you would be lost."
But Aria saw through his arrogance. To her, Darian and his ilk were not protectors—they were oppressors, their so-called service nothing more than a means to justify their cruelty. Every time she saw him, her blood boiled, her heart screaming for justice in a world that offered none.
One afternoon, Aria returned from the market to find Mira tending to the vegetable garden outside their modest home. Her hands moved steadily through the rows of crops, and despite the long day's work, there was a softness in her expression, a peace that Aria admired but never fully understood.
"How was your day, my dear?" Mira asked as Aria approached, her voice gentle, as though she hadn't a care in the world.
Aria hesitated. She wanted to shield her mother from the anger that burned inside her, the rage that had been simmering ever since her conversation with Commander Thorne. "The same," she said finally, sitting down beside her. "I... I spoke with Commander Thorne today."
Mira paused for just a moment, her hands stilling in the dirt. There was a flicker of concern in her eyes, but she quickly buried it, her voice calm. "And what did he say?"
Aria stared at the ground, her fingers tracing the rough edges of the wooden bench. "He told me about my past. About the Andromedans."
Mira frowned slightly, confusion crossing her face. "Andromedans? I don't understand. You were a lost child when I found you, Aria. I don't know anything about Andromedans."
Aria sighed, her frustration evident. "Neither did I. Until now."
Mira reached out and took Aria's hand in her own, her touch warm and reassuring. "What matters is that you are here, now, with me. Whoever you were before, whatever past you had—it doesn't change the love I have for you."
Aria felt a lump rise in her throat, the weight of her mother's words pressing down on her. For as long as she could remember, Mira had been her anchor in a world that felt increasingly hostile. And as much as Aria yearned to uncover the truth of her origins, she couldn't deny the comfort that Mira's presence brought.
They sat together in silence for a moment, the sound of the wind rustling through the crops filling the air. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the fields, and as the light dimmed, Aria felt a sense of calm wash over her.
But it was short-lived. In the distance, the sound of hooves and heavy boots signaled the arrival of Lord Darian's men. Aria tensed, instinctively moving closer to Mira, her hand tightening around her mother's.
The overseers arrived like a storm, led by Darian himself, his face set in a smug grin as he dismounted his mechanical steed. His overseers spread out, barking orders at the villagers as they collected the latest tribute—grain, produce, livestock—anything they could take to line their coffers and satisfy their insatiable greed.
"Ah, the farmer and her stray," Darian sneered as his gaze fell on Mira and Aria. "What have you for me today?"
Mira stood slowly, her expression serene as she faced the man who had caused her so much suffering. "We've harvested what we could, Lord Darian," she said softly. "It's not much, but it's all we have."
Darian laughed, a harsh, grating sound that made Aria's stomach turn. "Not much? You peasants never have much, do you?" He stepped closer, his eyes flicking to Aria with a leer. "Perhaps the girl could be of more use to me. She's grown, hasn't she?"
Aria's fists clenched, her body trembling with anger. But Mira, always the calming force, gently laid a hand on her daughter's arm, a silent plea to keep her temper in check.
"We serve the Emperor as best we can," Mira said, her voice unwavering. "Take what you need and leave us in peace."
Darian's smile faded, replaced by a sneer of contempt. "Peace is a luxury you peasants can't afford. But perhaps one day you'll learn your place."
As the overseers gathered their tribute and prepared to leave, Aria's rage simmered just beneath the surface. She watched them ride away, her heart pounding with the injustice of it all. But as she looked at Mira, standing tall and dignified despite everything, she understood the strength her mother carried. It wasn't just in the endurance of suffering—it was in the refusal to let cruelty strip them of their humanity.