Ted Shylo's manor, Xiaxoan Blues was a bright oasis in Monarek, a five-acre spreading of Xiaxoan herbs and trees, whispering another land much farther away than the industrialized destruction of the Kirat Empire. Redwhisper trees were able to brew potions of healing potions while Silvershadow needed their silvery leaves for some elixir that stabilized mana. Under branches, Mistbloom vines crept along ground, with glows in petal that improve focus and clearness.
Near the edge of the garden, starfruit sage, with its lightly glowing fruits, grew in abundance, and the clusters of ghostshade orchids swayed with the breeze. These orchids were said to absorb and neutralize poisonous fumes, and the toxic nature of the outside world seemed implied by this attribute. Here, everything seemed to have a reason to be planted or a story in each tree's existence, all so different from the sterile alchemical approach of the Kirat.
The Xiaxoans knew the difference. Their artifacts and potions carried the essence of Sinlung, a communion with the land itself. It was something the Kirat, for all their industrial might, could never replicate. As Xiaxoan elders often said, "An empire grows fat on its own hunger, devouring even its roots. But a tree with deep roots weathers every storm."
His slumber was interrupted by the very first sunlight rays seeping into his room through latticed windows. The room seemed almost too big to him. A workshop and study adjoined it, laden with a mass of tools, books, and samples of herbs and minerals. It was a scholar's paradise, and he had dived headfirst into his work.
He was not impressed by the outcome of the previous day. He spent the late night again, going over his notes comparing Xiaxoan flora with those bizarre plants he had seen during his travel. Then, after a long period of experimentation, he finally gained inspiration. He made a new alchemical compound that could enhance spiritual essence more than two years—enabling children who would otherwise suffer from magical retardation due to limited spiritual energy at birth.
He also designed two weapons: a blade from the bark of the Iron-tree due to its hardness and resistance to enchantments and additional sharpness via runes, and throwing knives made from the claws of the Yellow-ringed Wolf.
He cleaned his workshop of all sketches and prototypes he was going to try out by the evening; pleased with the work he has done so far, Larin left his room and headed to dinner with his aunts and uncle.
"You were kept busy," Tyrs said as she pushed into the dining hall.
"Productively so," Larin said with a smile. "But now I need to step out and see the city."
"Alone?" Mynta raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," Larin said firmly. "I want to understand this place, and I can't do that with guards or company."
Ted leaned back in his chair, his face thoughtful. "Monarek isn't forgiving to outsiders, even those who dress the part. Be careful."
Despite his protests, Ted finally relented and ordered the guards at the back gate to let Larin pass.
Wearing black leatherwork, with a cyan vest and nightsilk trousers, Larin slipped out into the crowded streets of Monarek. A white spiraling shawl made from Humphrey's Camel hair covered his head, and he could be lost in the crowd.
Night over the city: an extravaganza of contrasts. Street vendors bellow their wares against the shimmering dance of magical lanterns while beggars sit in the dark, lost to the cacophony of their whispers. Larin wandered, soaking up the sights and sounds of it all, Xiaxoan perception making everything seem odd yet interesting.
Larin saw on a street crossing an old man lying on the street, his palms stretched out, and begging. Rags covered him; grooves of struggles engraved on his face.
"A penny, little boy?" rasped Hadrin.
Larin kneeled besides him and produced a small green token. "How long have you been here?
Hadrin smiled, a bitter smile. "My whole life. Begging's my birthright, passed down from father to son and his father before him. The gods of Dysno decree our place at birth. I was born a beggar, and so I'll die as one."
Larin frowned. "You're saying you can't change your position?"
The old man shook his head. "The empire's gods make the rules. Breaking them is blasphemy. And blasphemy gets you. removed."
As Hadrin spoke, a patrol of guards marched by, their armor shining in the lantern light. The old man looked away and stayed silent. Larin understood. Here, dissent wasn't just dangerous—it was fatal.
.
In a quieter alley, Larin found a woman sorting through refuse with her two children. Her hands worked quickly, salvaging anything of worth.
"Finding something specific?" Larin asked.
Mayna looked up, startled but cautious. "Anything that can be fixed or sold. The scraps of the empire are our bread."
Her children, a boy and a girl, clung to her sides. Larin saw how thin they were, their clothes patched and worn.
"Do you do this always?"
She nodded. "I was born to it, as were my parents. The gods of Dysno tie us to our craft. A ragpicker I was born, and a ragpicker I shall be."
"And your children?"
"They will do the same," she said, crushed under the weight of her reality. "It's all they are permitted to do."
Larin's heart felt sick with what she spoke. "Do you think the gods want this for you?"
She paused, then let out a deep breath. "I don't know. But questioning it won't fill my children's stomachs."
Hammering sounds led Larin to a forge, where a muscular man pounded away, his muscles flexing as he molded molten metal.
"You are skilled," Larin said, watching the sparks fly.
Boran looked up, wiping sweat from his brow. "A lifetime of practice. My family's been smiths for generations. Dysno decrees it."
"Do you enjoy it?"
Boran shrugged. "It's what I know. Wishing for something else won't change my lot."
"But what if you could?" Larin pressed.
Boran set down his hammer, meeting Larin's gaze. "My son dreams of being a scribe, but it's forbidden. Dysno doesn't allow us to change paths. He'll be a smith like me, or he'll suffer for defiance."
In a small spice-and-trinket shop, Larin ran into Anira-a sharp-eyed woman of forty-odd years.
"Do you desire anything in specific?" she asked.
"Stories," Larin said. "Yours if you're willing to share."
Anira's smile was a faint thing. "Not much to tell. My husband died in the empire's wars. My son was conscripted. And now it is only me and this shop. Dysno gives us our parts, but takes much, much more."
"Have you ever considered leaving?"
"Where would I go?" she asked. "The empire owns everything. Even our dreams."
As the night pressed on, Larin pieced together the grim reality of the Kirat Empire's caste system. Every aspect of life-the Dysno religion-bound people to their roles from birth to death. There was no upward mobility, no freedom to choose. For some, it provided purpose; for others, it was a chain they couldn't break.
Returning to Xiaxoan Blues, Larin couldn't help but dwell upon the tales he had heard. The empire's strength was purchased at a price: a society was rigidly divided, its people entrusted in servile cycles. Crossing the manor gates, he knew at least this much: only by grasping Monarek's heart would he be able to dismantle its grip upon the whole of the continent.