Alaric did not know how many dramas had happened in the capital during his absence.

  Yet he sensed something was wrong the moment he left Paser’s house.

  He remembered drinking with him. That much was clear.

  After that—nothing.

  No memory. No fragments. Only darkness.

  When he woke, the top button of his shirt had come undone. Yet he had been lying properly on his side of the bed.

  Paser looked exactly as he had the night before. Calm. Composed.

  Too composed.

  Alaric chose to remain silent, lest he startle the snake in the grass.

  ?

  After riding out of the region, he made a decision that confused even himself.

  Instead of taking the main road—wide, stable, and commonly traveled—he pointed toward a narrow path that cut through woodland and fields half-buried in snow.

  “This way,” he said simply.

  The capital soldiers exchanged looks but did not question him aloud. None of them had the authority to stop him.

  So they followed.

  It was still winter.

  The snow had begun to melt, turning the earth beneath into heavy mud. Each step of the horses sank slightly before pulling free with a wet, sucking sound. The air was damp and sharp, biting into the lungs.

  After some time, the men behind him began to murmur.

  “This road leads nowhere.”

  “It’s not marked on the royal map.”

  Before their complaints could grow louder, one of them pointed ahead.

  “There’s a village.”

  Through the pale mist of afternoon light, rooftops emerged.

  Yet something felt wrong immediately.

  It was too quiet.

  No children running through the snow.

  No smoke rising thick from chimneys.

  No laughter. No barking dogs.

  The entire place seemed frozen—not by winter, but by fear.

  Perhaps they are inside, Alaric thought. The cold is harsh. They must be gathered near their stoves.

  But as they drew closer, the illusion shattered.

  The houses were broken.

  Roofs sagged inward as though crushed by years of neglect. Wooden beams protruded like exposed ribs. Doors hung loose from rusted hinges, creaking faintly in the wind.

  The snow had gathered unevenly inside open doorways and through shattered windows.

  And if one looked closely—

  There were people.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  They stood in shadows. Behind half-closed doors. Watching.

  Their clothes were thin. Torn. Patched too many times to count.

  When they saw Alaric and his men—well-fed horses, clean cloaks, polished boots—they did not see travelers.

  They saw power.

  And in their eyes, Alaric saw two things:

  Fear.

  And anger.

  He dismounted.

  The sound of his boots sinking into the mud made several villagers step back.

  He approached a small crowd forming near the well.

  Some began to scatter.

  An old woman stood frozen in place, a child clutched in her arms. The child’s face was pale, lips dry from cold.

  The woman suddenly dropped to her knees.

  “My lord,” she cried, tears streaming down her wrinkled face, “this winter has been too cruel. Last autumn was not a harvest season. How are we to pay the tax?”

  Tax?

  Alaric frowned slightly.

  “Madam, what are you speaking of?”

  She looked up at him, disbelief spreading across her face.

  “You… you were not sent by the Lord to collect our tax?”

  She pointed toward a wooden board nailed crookedly to a wall nearby. Several notices were half-buried in snow, edges torn by wind.

  Two seals were visible.

  One stamped with the royal crest.

  The other with the Lord’s insignia.

  Same date.

  Two separate demands.

  Alaric felt something cold slide into his chest.

  “So,” he said slowly, “you are paying two types of taxes?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied. “One for our Lord. One for the royal army, to defend the borders.”

  “It has always been this way?”

  The old woman nodded.

  “Yes. Since I was born.”

  In Alaric’s knowledge, within the Blackmoor domain, nobles who provided soldiers to the crown were exempt from royal tax. And even where royal taxes were required, they were structured so that peasants would not be overburdened. The crown was meant to take a portion of what nobles already collected—not on top of it to bleed the villagers dry.

  Yet here—

  A middle-aged man stepped forward and tugged at the old woman’s sleeve.

  “Mother. Enough,” he whispered urgently. “We do not know who he is. You will bring trouble upon us.”

  But the old woman shook him off.

  “Someone must speak,” she said, voice trembling but loud enough for all to hear.

  She continued, “It was not unbearable when trade with Ironvale still prospered. But since the lordship there collapsed—may God have mercy—bands of displaced men gather into roaming militias. They rob. They threaten. We have nothing left.”

  The village is sinking day by day.

  “I work closely with the King,” Alaric did not want to disclose his true identity, but he said firmly. “What you are experiencing is not what we are told in the capital. This will be investigated. Things will change.”

  More villagers edged closer now.

  “I heard we will have a new king,” someone said quietly.

  “I heard he is the son of the first queen.”

  “God bless him,” another murmured.

  Alaric stood still.

  He did not carry much coin with him. But he reached into his purse and handed out what he could.

  It was nothing compared to what they needed.

  But he could not walk away empty-handed.

  He looked at them—all of them.

  Thin shoulders. Hollow cheeks. Children too silent for their age.

  Can he really change everything?

  He did not know.

  But he said it anyway.

  “Things will be different,” he promised. “I give you my word.”

  The crowd bowed—not deeply, not ceremoniously.

  Just tired.

  He mounted his horse again.

  Before leaving, he took one last look at the village.

  Smoke from distant noble estates rose thick and confident against the sky.

  Here, chimneys barely breathed.

  His shoulders felt heavy.

  He had thought his battle lay in Stormcoast, beside his friends.

  Now he understood—

  The kingdom itself was sinking.

  And if he wished to save anything at all,

  He would have to save all of it.

  ———

  In the distance, on higher ground overlooking the village, stood a noble estate.

  Tall stone walls. Iron gates. Windows glowing gold against the gray winter sky.

  Inside, firewood burned generously in wide hearths. Servants moved briskly through warm corridors. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine lingered in the air.

  It was the estate of Baron Worsley.

  A servant hurried into the study and bowed.

  “My lord. A report from the village.”

  Baron Worsley did not look up immediately. He continued swirling the wine in his glass before finally speaking.

  “Well?”

  “There was a visit from riders bearing the capital’s crest. They spoke with the villagers.”

  At that, the Baron smiled.

  “Did they now?”

  He walked to the window and looked down toward the faint outline of the village below. Even from here, it appeared small. Insignificant.

  “A mysterious visit from the capital…” he murmured.

  His smile widened.

  “Must be him.”

  The servant hesitated. “My lord… shall we prepare?”

  Baron Worsley laughed softly.

  “Oh, there is no need.”

  He took a slow sip of wine.

  “Either we can expect him to knock on our door very soon…”

  He set the glass down gently.

  “Or,” he continued, eyes narrowing toward the snow-covered mountain rising beyond the estate, “he will find himself climbing that mountain in front of them.”

  His tone was light.

  Almost amused.

  “But the snow is deep this year,” he added. “Mountains are… dangerous.” A cunning smile spread across his face. “Then I’d say… have fun, Your Majesty.”