The caravan crested a low hill, revealing the expanse of Lord Cartlian's lands stretching toward the horizon. The fields below, once green and bountiful, were a patchwork of dry earth and brittle stalks. What little grew was wilted, the dew of the morning clinging to leaves that seemed too weak to drink it in. A broken toll gate stood at the border, its once-proud archway splintered and sagging. Beside it, a soldier leaned against a post, his armor rusted and his gaze vacant as he waved the caravan through with a muttered demand for coin.
The merchant handed over the toll without a word, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The soldier's belt hung loose on his hips, the leather cracked and frayed, a far cry from the polished steel expected of the kingdom's forces.
As the caravan rumbled onward, the merchant observed the land with quiet precision. A boy trudged along the road, leading a skeletal cow with a rope that looked as though it might snap at any moment. In a field, a woman bent low, clawing at the earth with her bare hands, her face streaked with dirt and despair. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the creak of wagon wheels and the occasional cry of a crow overhead.
When the sun began to set, the caravan stopped by a small clearing just off the main road. The merchant directed his men to make camp, their wagons forming a loose circle for security. Fires were lit, casting flickering shadows over the desolate landscape. The merchant sat by one of the fires, his meal a modest portion of bread and dried meat. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the outline of a distant village was barely visible against the dimming light.
A rustling sound broke his thoughts. One of the guards stepped forward, escorting an old man, "He says he's from the village ahead," the guard explained, "Wants to talk."
The merchant gestured for the man to sit. The old man hesitated, clutching a worn satchel against his chest. His unkempt hair fell in wiry clumps around his face, framing eyes hollowed by exhaustion. The tattered remains of his clothes hung loosely from his gaunt frame, the once-sturdy leather of his shoes now layered with holes and barely clinging to his feet. His hunger was barely concealed as his gaze flickered between the merchant and the fire. Finally, he settled onto a log, the satchel dropping at his feet with a hollow thud.
"What brings you out here?" the merchant asked, his tone even, though his gaze lingered on the satchel.
The old man glanced toward the village, then back at the merchant. "Food," he said hoarsely, lifting the satchel to reveal its emptiness. The seams were frayed, its once sturdy leather now brittle with age. "There's nothing left for us. The land's gone dry. Taxes keep coming, but there's no grain to pay them. Folks are leaving—or worse."
"Worse?" the merchant prompted, watching the old man closely, his bread untouched beside him. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire.
Finally, the old man shifted, his hands tightening around the empty satchel. "Some stay, hoping for a miracle that won't come. Others take to the roads, begging or stealing just to survive. I've seen families torn apart. Fathers leaving for work they'll never find. Children sold to pay debts."
The merchant nodded slowly, his gaze calculating. He reached for the bread, tearing off a piece and holding it out. The old man hesitated before taking it, his hands trembling as he bit into the crust, chewing deliberately. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
"You've given me much to think about," the merchant said at last, his tone neutral. "Tell me this—what of Lord Cartlian? What does he do as the land withers?"
The old man's laugh was bitter, short. "Cartlian's no better than the drought. Squeezes us dry and moves on to the next village. We're just numbers to him, not people. His men come, take what little we have, and call it tax collection."
The merchant leaned back, studying the old man carefully. The silence hung between them before the old man spoke again, his voice low. "The roads are worse than the fields," he said grimly. "Bandits have taken to them—hungry folk with nothing left to lose. They'll strip a wagon bare, coin or no coin. Cartlian's men don't bother chasing them; they're just as desperate."
He paused, his fingers brushing over the frayed satchel. "Grain's the only thing left worth trading. Sells high in the south, even higher if you can slip past Cartlian's taxes. His men take their cut at every turn." The old man's voice grew quieter, almost bitter. "You'll need more than bread to get by here, merchant."
The merchant said nothing for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a nod, he reached into his pack and handed the old man another piece of bread. "For the road," he said simply.
The old man hesitated, then took it with a quiet "Thank you." As he shuffled away into the night, the merchant leaned back, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. Around him, the guards settled in for the night, their weapons close at hand. The merchant's gaze drifted back toward the horizon, where the faint outline of the village remained. The world here was broken, he thought. But even in broken things, there was value—if one knew where to look.