Proceeding with my travel in the book "Natural History of Aeveris" by Magus Mayjory, I found that I had a chance to probe deeper into the lands we knew as home. Nymebia is our fiefdom; indeed, it finds itself under a rather expansive kingdom of Varealis, whose old Rayan family was said to be ruling over all these lands, they say. It was a techno-feudal dominion where magic mixed with technology, and in it, built a world in the lives of nobility promising and seldom delivering trickling benefits to commoners. A captivating yet unequal world this, enchantment and invention make.
Among the multitude pages which I surfed, there was one that showed rare herbs, odd minerals, and magical metals-all descriptions of Varealis wealth and industry. The other three struck through special qualifications and highly subtile applications : first, example-Aezveria's Whisper, a leafy plant, the tincture of one leaves an enchantment, lovely beyond measure by which its silver grey light like so mooned be-often enough quelling storms where once turbulence feels most deeply-this medicine was for sale but when its infussment is added into some teas-these was prized with such common consent both with all physi cian-in court in cities alike. Another was Onyxglow Ore, the deep black mineral veined by streaks of shining red. It would only appear in the deeper dark recesses of Nymebia's older caverns; that is where the arms which resisted magic working were produced, material invaluable to be used in times of war. The last of Velithium, this stuff pulsed within it and perfectly conducted mana as well as electricity. This precious material was used by the greatest artificers to make elaborate spell-machines and power conduits, but mining it carried dangerous side effects: exposure to raw Velithium often produced visions of fragmented futures.
The book also wrote about the wonders of biodiversity of Aeveris. Every region was a nursery of unique life, but Varealis was more of a hotspot for mundane as well as spiritual creatures. The northern mountains were patrolled by the Giant Sylvan Hawks, and the Nightshade Beetle roamed the dark southern forests, said to veil itself in shadows. Lakes shimmered with spectral fish whose scales reflected the stars, and tales of flame-breathing river otters enchanted the imaginations of even the most skeptical scholars.
A knock at the door jarred me from my reverie. I shut the tome with a soft thud and said, "Come in."
Qwuine, ever effervescent, popped inside. "Sister, it's already lunch. They've made your favorite—iced koka and raw silverfish." Her eyes sparkled mirthfully as she added, "Don't keep me waiting!"
She vanished before I could reply, and I hurried to follow her, my curiosity now shifting from knowledge to hunger.
The dining hall was a warm, cozy place, thronged with the ambience of dishes prepared with delicate care. My parents were already seated. Father occupied the seat of honour at the head of the table, his stature and figure a sign of unshakeable authority. Qwuine sat to his right, radiating energy, while Mother's slight form occupied the seat to his left. My own chair awaited beside hers.
And across the lunch, a deluge of banter, jest, and inquiring talks. Between forkfuls of delicate silverfish and draughts of sweet koka, half the room convulsed laughing at my father teasing Qwuine on the latest magical mishap: her half of the garden blooming flowers that went off-key for humming.
"You could market them as a novelty," he cracked up.
"They sing abominably," she snapped back, pouting.
"Even bad music needs an audience," I said, and they laughed.
But when the mood lightened again, my thoughts reverted to the people of the streets. I waited until it had grown quiet once more before speaking my question:
"Father, Mother," I ventured carefully, "what about the people out there? The farmers, the artisans: outside our walls, how do they fare?"
A subtle tension entered the air. Mother looked over at Father, and his brow furrowed a little before he spoke.
"Our people are well, Father," he said, his voice calm but measured. "We ensure that Nymebia remain a haven for all. Commons remain open, and we resist those who wish to privatized the lands for their own gain, and we funded schools, catered to those infirm amongst us, while festivals keep hope alive."
Mother nodded. "We believe in stewardship, not dominion. That is why our fiefdom prospers and others do not."
Their words painted a picture of wealth, but I could hear the brushstrokes of omission. "And the local lords and landlords?" I asked, probing gently. "Do they take our lead?"
Silence stretched just long enough to be noticed. My father's hand around his glass grew tight. "Many do," he said slowly. "But not all."
This answer stirred indignation in my breast. "Then why let them be? If they rob the people, shall not we—"
Father checked me with one upraised hand. His firm kindly smile stilled his words. "Change does not come with snap of fingers, Lynt. Power is a tangled web; to pull out one strand might unravel the very weave."
Mother reached out, her hand warm over mine. "You care deeply, and that is a rare gift. Hold onto it. But remember, even noble intentions must be tempered with wisdom."
"You will change things," Father added, his eyes a mix of pride and hope. "When your time comes, we believe you will find the way."
Their confidence in me balm weighed as much against the weight it came with: coming out of that dining hall, thoughts were swelling within my mind for a future and countless questions I will answer. A revolution is a journey, I knew deep within my heart: mine had hardly just begun.