The wind grew colder as early autumn deepened.
After leaving Stonebridge, Aether and Kaelan pushed further east along the Great Road. Broad farmlands began to unfurl on either side of the highway. Unlike the sparse, scattered plots of Stony Creek, the fields here seemed to stretch into infinity, golden waves of wheat rolling beneath the wind all the way to the horizon.
Aether stood atop a grassy ridge, staring out at the sight for a long time.
"Look at all that grain," he whispered softly. "How many mouths could that feed?"
Kaelan took in the vast expanse with a quiet glance. "A great many."
For the first time, Aether truly understood that Whitestone City existed not merely because of its massive stone walls, but because of these lands, these scattered villages, and the farmers who worked the dirt.
***
At dusk, they arrived at a settlement called Riverdale.
Before they even reached the edge of the village, a heated shouting match echoed from the central square.
A dozen angry farmers had crowded into the open space, their faces dark with fury. Opposite them, a handful of armed guards flanked a heavy wooden transport wagon, standing beside a middle-aged tax collector clad in a simple gray robe.
The two sides were locked in a tense standoff.
"Our yield this year is half of what we brought in last autumn!" an elderly farmer shouted, shaking a gnarled fist. "We can barely keep our own children fed! Why are you still demanding the full tax?"
Angry mutters cascaded through the gathered villagers.
The tax collector looked exhausted, dark rings carved deep beneath his eyes, yet he stood his ground. "The tax quota is set by Whitestone City. I have no authority to alter it."
"Then let the lords in Whitestone City come down here and look at our fields themselves!" someone roared from the back.
The tension in the air climbed toward a boiling point.
Aether frowned, his hands clenching into fists. His sympathies aligned with the farmers almost instantly. Their distress was plain to see—threadbare clothes, hollow cheeks, and the genuine, unfeigned terror of a harsh winter ahead. That kind of desperation couldn't be faked.
For the rest of the day, Aether walked through the village, talking with the locals.
One farmer spoke of feral beasts slaughtering their livestock; another talked of sick children and medical debts; another showed him crops rotted through by sudden torrential rains. Every family bore a heavy burden; every house had a story of hardship.
The more Aether listened, the angrier he became. *Why insist on collecting taxes now? Why couldn't the city grant them a single year's grace? Why couldn't they give these people room to breathe?*
That evening, back at their campfire, Aether blurted out to Kaelan, "It isn't fair. What they're doing is wrong."
Kaelan didn't reply. His attention was focused on something else entirely.
***
The following morning, Kaelan pointed out a curious detail.
The tax collector and his guards were eating the exact same sparse rations as the travelers on the road—stale black bread, lukewarm water, and tiny strips of dried meat. Their tunics were frayed at the cuffs and patched at the elbows. They looked nothing like the pampered, greedy officials Aether had envisioned.
"They don't look wealthy either," Kaelan observed quietly.
Aether blinked, caught off guard. It was a thought that had never crossed his mind.
Later that evening, Aether approached the tax collector himself.
The man’s name was Matthews. He was around fifty years old, his face weathered and lined by years of travel. He looked more like a tired merchant than a man wielding authority.
"Do you know how hard they have it?" Aether asked directly.
Matthews fell silent for a long moment, staring out over the darkening fields. "I do."
"Then why still take their food?"
Matthews sighed softly, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "Because I also know that the garrison needs grain to eat. The waystations need coin for repairs. The highways must be maintained, and the bridges need guards to keep the roads safe from bandits."
Aether went quiet.
Matthews continued in a low, measured voice. "If there were only one village in this land, things would be simple. But it isn't just Riverdale. There are dozens of villages, hundreds of miles of trade routes, garrisons, and entire regions depending on the order we keep."
Aether had no answer. He had never looked at the world from such a scale before.
***
That night, everything shattered.
While inspecting a communal granary, one of the soldiers discovered a hidden cache of unrecorded grain.
Word spread through the village like wildfire, and within minutes, an enraged mob of farmers swarmed the storehouse.
"That's our winter survival stash!" a farmer screamed. "That isn't tax evasion!"
"The declared amount doesn't match the storage," the soldier insisted, holding his ground. "It violates the realm's law."
The argument flared violently. Accusations turned to shouting, and shouting turned to physical jostling.
In the chaos, a young farmer surged forward to grab the grain bag. Instinctively, a young guard shoved him back.
The farmer lost his footing, stumbled backward, and struck his head against a sharp stone boundary marker.
Blood welled up instantly, staining the dirt red.
The entire square went dead silent.
A heartbeat later, absolute chaos erupted. Women screamed, elders cursed, and the young guards nervously drew their weapons, forming a tight defensive ring. The air tightened like a snapped bowstring.
Aether stood frozen in the surging crowd, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The nature of the dispute had changed in a single second. It was no longer about grain or taxes—someone had bled.
Matthews’ face turned deathly pale. He shoved his way through his men, barked orders for them to sheath their steel, and demanded someone fetch the local healer immediately.
Stepping into the center of the crowd, he announced loudly, "The collection is suspended. We stop here today. Everything recorded will be sent up to Whitestone City for review."
Neither side walked away satisfied, but the violence receded.
***
Night fell over Riverdale.
Aether sat by the flickering campfire, staring into the dark in long, unbroken silence.
Every scene from the day played endlessly in his mind.
The farmers spoke the truth—they were genuinely struggling to survive. The tax collector spoke the truth as well—the roads and garrisons required grain to function. Even the young guard who shoved the farmer hadn't intended to hurt anyone.
*So why did someone still end up bleeding in the dirt?*
What confused Aether even more was a detail he learned later that night: the young farmer who was injured happened to be one of the men hiding the largest hoard of undeclared grain. He was truly desperate, yet he was also truly breaking the law.
Thoughts tangled violently in Aether's mind.
Everyone was telling the truth, yet each person only held the piece of truth that belonged to them.
The farmers saw their own misery. The tax collector saw his duty. The soldier saw his orders.
*Yet no one seemed able to see the whole picture.*
***
The firelight flickered softly against the dark. Beside him, Kaelan sat silently, whittling a sturdy branch with his hunting knife.
After a long time, Aether spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Kaelan?"
"Yeah?"
"If everyone can only see what's right in front of them... who is supposed to look out for the whole world?"
Kaelan stopped his whittling. He stared into the night, silent for a very long time, before slowly shaking his head.
"I don't know."
It was a rare admission from him. Aether didn't push further—he didn't have the answer either.
Far off in the dark, the faint torchlight of travelers on the Great Road moved slowly onward, flowing like an endless, unyielding river.
And that unanswered question flowed right along with it, sinking deep into the boy's heart.