Duskendale East Fields, Late Morning.
The sun climbed higher, its weak light piercing the thinning clouds and warming the field where ten acres had been turned.
The atmosphere carries a sense of desolation, with the wind gently stirring dust and the scent of dry earth evoking feelings of burden.
Farmers from Rosby labored with plows, their breaths steady and rhythmic, while men from Duskendale wielded hoes, striking the hardened crust with resolute thuds, sweat darkening their sleeves.
I stood by a cart, my hand feeling the rough wood, my cloak billowing in the gusts, and the orb's hum a constant sound in my ears.
My legs were stiff, but I stood tall—a prince who commands rather than one who toils.
Gyles walked along the rows, his boots crunching over the clods.
He stopped beside a wiry Rosby plowman, whose weathered face bore the marks of labor as he maneuvered his plow through the stubborn muck.
Gyles raised his voice, cutting through the din of work with a tone both loud and rough.
"Just ten acres—half a morning's work and you're still slow," he said and leaned close. "I recall the days at Rosby when I witnessed you effortlessly clear two hundred acres, with plows digging deep until the sun went down. This salt is a stubborn enemy—it clogs your blades and bites like a wild dog. Do not coddle it; instead, plunge deeper into the soil and let the rye breathe!"
The plowman grunted and wiped his brow. "Salt is heavier here—it sticks far more than Rosby's clay," he muttered.
Gyles let a snort, his boot striking the ground with a forceful thud that sent dirt scattering in all directions.
"Heavier? Yes indeed, it fights hard, but you're not beginners either. Listen to me Duskendale men," he said, pointing at a broad, weathered farmer with salt stains on his sleeves, "you've hauled nets through storms and worked with rough ropes. This ground is no different than that—break it like you'd break a wave, quickly and surely. C'mon the seed is waiting—don't keep it waiting."
One Duskendale farmer paused mid-swing and called out in a gravelly voice, "Lord Denys says we need bread, but how can we get it if this stubborn soil stops us?"
Gyles stepped closer, a scar twisting into a fierce grin. "Bread will comes from you right here, with every swing of your tools. Rosby is feeding people now because we didn't back down then. The prince brought you here for his fields and his grain. I'm telling you: forty acres still remain, and each can feed a home if you work hard. The salt is mocking us—show it who's in charge. Keep the plows straight and the hoes quick. Dusk is our deadline. Now, go!"
He clapped his hands sharply, and the farmers surged forward—plows dug deeper into the earth, hoes worked faster, and the dust rose thicker this time.
Gyles then walked back and leaned on the cart beside me, his breath heavy.
"They're waking up," he said gruffly. "Rosby men has pride and Duskendale, well they have hunger. And your name is like a whip—If used it right, they'll finish the job faster."
I nodded, the orb warming my hand as I replied, "They'll finish it. The fields don't need my sweat after all, just their own hard work."
Gyles smirked and turned back to the fields— my resolve, his energy, and their labor all merging together in the field.
Duskendale East Fields, Midday.
The sun was high, a pale disc breaking through the clouds and casting long shadows over the field.
Now twenty acres had been turned—the earth is dark and loose, as farmers diligently scattered rye seed , practiced arcs and hoes lightly covered it.
The wind had softened into a quiet murmur, and the air smelled of fresh, torn soil with a sharp hint of salt—a challenge met by the workers, not by me.
I stood near the cart, my cloak was unfastened and loose, the orb was burning steadily at my side.
My breath was shallow and my chest tight from standing for too long, but I remained firm—a prince watching over his men, not one of them.
Denys Darklyn walked down from the Dun Fort, his dark cloak snapping in the breeze, his boots were scuffing on the seeded earth.
He surveyed the scene before him; his square jaw was set with determination, his eyes betraying both doubt and desire.
Two guards followed behind him, hands on their swords, their armor catching a faint light.
Stopping beside me with his arms crossed, he spoke in a deep, slow voice that the farmers could hear.
"Twenty acres done—half of our intended plot, and it's coming to life," he said, nodding at the rows.
"Your men and mine are tearing into the salt like it's soft clay. This might work—twenty, maybe thirty acres will make enough bread for a few streets, if not the whole town. Yet Hunger is relentless adversary; if this fails, it could bite back."
He then turned his gaze toward me, lowering his voice to a rumble.
"A prince should lead his people and not just fight with a sword in the dirt. I like your plan. And look at that—" he nodded toward Aelthys, a dark figure at the field's edge, "—standing like a wall. Now raiders won't even dare come near."
"The salt is a tough enemy and the rain might be coming, but this rye has a chance. Twenty acres are good, but I need fifty and you look tired. I hope they finish this, and then we can yield loaves and not just rows of seed. Or am I just betting on air?"
I met his gaze, the orb pulsing as I rested a hand lightly on my belt. "It will finish," I said firmly.
"The two hundred acres of Rosby were worked by the farmers—not by me. And these fifty acres will produce the same grain with the same skill. Twenty acres are already set; and thirty more will follow, and then a full yield. When the loaves are baked, they are yours to count."
Denys tilted his head, testing my words, then spoke softly, almost to himself. "Well Rosby is real—I have indeed tasted it. " "Alright, then. Fifty acres it is."
A Rosby farmer nearby, who was scattering seed, called out in a rough voice, "Salt is a killer—how long until we have bread, my lord?"
Denys turned, his voice firm and unwavering. "As long as it takes. The prince says it will be soon, and the fields are already showing promise. Keep scattering—you'll be the first to eat if it holds."
The farmer nodded and dipped his hand back into the sack.
Denys then stepped back, his eyes lingering on the plows cutting through the soil and the seed falling, a mix of command, work, and hope in the air.