The air held a chill that spoke of the end of autumn. The last leaves clung desperately to the branches, trembling in the wind before surrendering to the season's inevitable decay. Beyond the outskirts of Luminith, Toki stood among the farmlands—what remained of them. The fields stretched dull and colorless, marked by stunted stalks and patches of bare soil. Crows circled low, scavenging what little they could find.
His men were scattered across the fields, recording the yield of this year's harvest. The sound of quills scratching against parchment mingled with the rustle of cold wind and the soft laughter of children playing around the carts.
"Captain," one of the farmers called out, wiping his brow with a tattered cloth. "The harvest's bad this year. Real bad."
Toki approached him slowly, his boots sinking into the loose, dry earth. He glanced into the man's eyes—tired, hollow, yet still holding a trace of dignity.
"You're right," Toki replied quietly. "The soil's weak. I can feel it even under my boots. The roots have given up." His voice lowered, almost to a whisper. "How do you plan to get through the winter?"
The man gave a bitter laugh. "We don't know, Captain. Not this time. The animals are thin, the grain's near gone, and the merchants won't trade unless we pay in silver we don't have. We've seen hard years before—but this…" His voice cracked. "This feels different."
Toki looked away toward the children. They were chasing one another around the wagons, their bare feet kicking up dust. One boy had a stick in his hand, pretending it was a sword; another wore a crown made of straw. Their laughter cut through the silence of the dying fields—a fragile melody clinging to hope.
A faint ache settled in Toki's chest.
This… this poor harvest meant something much darker than hunger. It meant the children—the weakest, the smallest—would starve first. He had seen it before in the outer provinces: how a single failed harvest could break an entire generation.
One of his soldiers, a young man named Lethan, noticed the look on his captain's face. "Sir, something wrong?"
Toki drew a long breath, then exhaled slowly. "It's not good, Lethan. Even if we ration, even if we slaughter the livestock for meat, it won't be enough. Without grain, without vegetables, the lower districts will suffer most. And when hunger strikes, sickness follows."
He turned his gaze toward the horizon where the city's spires shimmered faintly through the haze. "The outskirts have no proper drainage. No clean water. When food runs out, people will drink from the ditches, from the riverbeds. Diseases will spread. And when winter comes—" he paused, his voice darkening—"it will carry death on the wind."
Lethan frowned. "You think it could be that bad, sir?"
Toki nodded. "Worse. Famine breeds chaos. And chaos breeds plague. If we're not careful, this could turn into a full-blown epidemic. Not just hunger, but sickness—something that could burn through the whole kingdom. If it spreads to the capital, millions will die."
The soldiers fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
After a moment, Toki spoke again, his tone calm but firm. "I'll go to the palace. This isn't something we can handle alone. The King needs to know, and the council must act before it's too late."
He turned to the others. "Finish collecting what remains. Store it carefully. Every grain, every root counts now."
The men nodded in unison. As Toki stepped away, his long coat brushed against the brittle grass. He approached his giant bird—Umma. The creature bent its head, as if sensing its master's urgency.
"While I'm gone," Toki said, addressing the group one last time, "keep the villagers calm. Tell them we'll find a way."
The farmer who had spoken earlier raised his voice. "Do you really think there's a solution, Captain?"
Toki placed one hand on the creature's saddle and looked back at the man. "There's always a solution," he said simply. "We just have to be willing to pay the price for it."
As Umma spread its legs, dust swirled around them. The bird's cry echoed through the valley—a sharp, commanding sound that stirred the hearts of those below. The villagers and soldiers watched as Toki rushed toward the palace.
"Do you think he'll find a way?" the farmer whispered.
The soldier beside him smiled faintly. "He always does. Captain Toki's a man who's turned the impossible into routine. If anyone can save us from this, it's him."
By the time Toki reached the palace, the sun was already dipping behind the towers . The palace glowed gold and gray in the dying light, its marble spires crowned by the flicker of torches. He landed within the courtyard of the palace, the guards saluting sharply as he passed.
He wasted no time.
The great doors opened with a deep groan, revealing the grand corridor lined with red carpets and statues of long-dead kings. His boots echoed against the stone as he walked, each step quick, deliberate, filled with purpose. Servants and knights turned to watch him pass—the young commander whose name had become both legend and warning.
When he reached the throne room, two guards crossed their spears before him.
"Toki of the Fourth Division," one announced. "State your business before His Majesty."
"I seek urgent audience," Toki replied, voice steady but low. "The matter concerns the survival of the realm."
The guards exchanged a glance. Then, one of them nodded and pushed the doors open.
The throne room was vast and silent. Sunlight filtered weakly through tall stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor with muted color. At the far end, King Mathias sat on his throne—broad-shouldered, silver-haired, his expression weary yet composed. Around him stood four of his eldest advisors, cloaked in heavy robes, whispering among themselves like old ravens.
Toki walked forward and knelt.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice carrying through the hall. "Forgive my intrusion, but I bring dire news. The harvest has failed. The soil across the western farmlands is barren. If we don't act now—"
Before he could finish, one of the advisors interrupted him with a harsh bark.
"Know your place, Commander! You dare address His Majesty without request? Where is your decorum?"
Another joined in, sneering. "It's always the same with these so-called knights. One victory and they forget the laws of respect."
Toki remained still. His eyes were fixed on the floor, but his voice was calm. "If disrespect will save lives, then I will be guilty a thousand times over."
The room went silent.
King Mathias raised a hand, silencing the council. "Enough," he said, his deep voice echoing through the chamber. "Toki speaks with urgency, not arrogance. I've already received reports of the poor yield—but I did not expect it to be this severe."
He leaned forward slightly, studying Toki's face. "Tell me everything."
Toki rose to his feet. "Your Majesty, it's worse than the numbers suggest. The earth's exhausted—too many harvests without proper rest. Even with the livestock preserved, the food supply won't last the winter. Hunger will drive the lower districts into chaos, and disease will follow. The outer regions have no sanitation, no clean water. If the sickness spreads inward, even the noble districts won't be spared."
A murmur rippled through the advisors.
The oldest among them, Lord Harrow, frowned deeply. "You speak of plague as if it were already here."
Toki met his gaze. "Because, my lord, it's only a matter of time."
King Mathias steepled his fingers. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he rose, his cloak sweeping the steps of the throne. "You did well to bring this to me, Toki. We cannot delay."
He turned toward his advisors. "Summon the commanders. All of them. We will hold a council before the night ends."
"As you command, Your Majesty," one of the scribes said, bowing quickly before hurrying from the hall.
The King looked back at Toki. "You have seen the fields yourself?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"And your assessment—is there any hope?"
Toki hesitated. "There is… but not without sacrifice. We may need to divert supplies from the royal reserves or cut back on exports entirely. The merchants will protest. The nobles will curse your name. But if we do nothing, we will lose far more than gold."
A faint smile touched the King's lips. "You speak boldly, Commander. As always."
"It's not boldness," Toki replied softly. "It's desperation."
Mathias nodded once, slowly. "Then desperation will guide us tonight. The council shall convene. But tell me, Toki… in your heart, what do you fear most?"
Toki looked up at the vast ceiling, at the banners of Luminith swaying gently in the cold air. "Not famine," he said at last. "Not even death. What I fear most is watching the people lose faith—in their King, in their country… in hope itself."
The King's expression softened. "Then we will make sure that never happens."
And as the bells of the palace began to toll, summoning the commanders of every division, Toki stood beneath the vast arch of the throne room—silent, composed, yet burning within. He had faced monsters but this—this quiet war of hunger and despair—might yet be the hardest battle of all.
The conference chamber smelled faintly of wax and old paper. Tapestries hung heavy from the stone walls, their woven scenes of past victories dulled by dust and time. A long oaken table dominated the room, its polished surface bearing the scars of generations of councils; cups and cracked maps lay scattered across it like the relics of a slow, careful war.
When Toki and King Mathias took their seats at the end of the hall, most of the familiar faces had already gathered. Bernard sat with the ease of a man who had long ago learned to own a room; Gerald Smith occupied his usual place, broad-shouldered and watchful; Harold, more reserved and measured, kept his composure as always; Reginald's presence was a taut wire of bitterness; and four of the King's senior advisers — stiff-backed men in embroidered robes — perched like vultures along one side of the table, their eyes trained on each newcomer with hawkish attention.
There was a small murmur as Toki entered; some smiled, some hardened. Bernard's grin split his face into a pleased crescent. Harold's lips twitched—partly in welcome, partly in a test of restraint. Gerald Smith's glance landed on Toki and lingered a heartbeat longer than courtesy required; he always liked to see the man who refused to be bowed.
Reginald's eyes, however, burned with the same old contempt he always carried—an old grudge that had been fed and polished . He did not bother to hide it.
Toki slid into his seat between Gerald and Bernard, his posture steady despite the weight of the morning's flight and the urgency that tugged at his chest. He listened to the opening pleasantries like a man listening to distant thunder: necessary noise, then business. King Mathias cleared his throat and called the meeting to order.
"Today," the King said, voice low and authoritative, "we gather to address the harvest. I've been briefed. I shall not have us waste time. Commander Toki—tell us plainly: what are the damages you suspect?"
Every pair of eyes turned toward him. The silence expanded, waiting like a held breath.
Toki inhaled slowly. He had seen the parched fields, watched the farmer's hands, felt the children's thinness in his bones. He understood the economy and the trade routes, the thin dependencies cradling the kingdom's food supply like a fragile web. He also knew the dangers of speaking plainly in a room where words were weapons.
"Your Majesty," he began, "the damage is greater than the initial reports implied. In addition to the poor yields I documented, there is another factor worsening our positions: Velmoras."
At the name, an audible intake circled the table.
Velmoras was not a neighbor to be named lightly — a breadbasket and trade partner, a nation whose fields and ships had for years fed Luminith's cities when times were lean. To lose Velmoras as a supplier was not simply inconvenient; it was a wound in the kingdom's arteries.
Toki continued, measured. "Velmoras is in civil strife. Their routes are closed. Their ports are unsafe. Their caravans are impounded. The crown there lies contested — two houses claim the throne. Their merchants will not, and cannot, move goods the way they once did. We are, for all practical purposes, isolated in food. The littoral routes and overland corridors are blocked. The items we once imported — flour, oil, preserved grain — will not arrive."
The room reacted in the spectrum of human emotion. Harold's jaw tightened; Bernard's smile grew thin with concern; Gerald Smith's knuckles whitened on the table for a heartbeat before he arranged his face into inscrutable calm. One of the royal advisers snapped his fan with a small, offended sound.
"How—" the oldest advisor began, his tone brittle as old glass, "—do you obtain such news? This information should have gone through our channels."
Toki's hand brushed a map on the table, one showing trade lines like black veins. "With respect, my lord," he said quietly, "I have eyes on the border. Also—businessmen speak, and they share what they cannot keep silent. I know because Leonard's contacts informed us—the merchant routes that passed through him are now closed. I did not bring this lightly."
Reginald's face flushed with sudden rage, the color of wounded pride. "So a captain of men and hired swords can know more than the King's council? Is that what this is, Toki? Bravado dressed as intelligence?"
"I bring facts," Toki replied, his voice steady but hard. "Facts that leave us with limited time."
There was shifting along the table. The King's hand landed lightly on the map, stilling the room.
"If Velmoras is closed," King Mathias said, thumb tracing a line to the sea, "then our reserves will deplete rapidly if we continue business as usual. We must act."
"Act how?" an adviser demanded. "We are not a charity. The treasury cannot be poured into endless handouts."
Toki had expected this. It was the thinness of their world—the rules that bound them as tightly as chains. He had already rehearsed a dozen possible plans in his head during the ride back over the pale fields. When he spoke, he kept his voice low but fervent.
"We must change the calculus," he said. "We need to increase fertility quickly; we must secure clean water; we must prevent outbreaks. If the soil is thin and our children will starve, then we must make the soil breathe again. We can do that by using what the commons throw away—compost, manure, collected organic waste. We need a coordinated, kingdom-wide campaign: collect compost and animal waste, process it into fertilizer, distribute it to the areas that need it most. At the same time, dig latrines, build trench drainage, create simple filtration for wells, and implement immediate public-health measures to prevent disease."
A laugh—small and sharp—worked its way out of Reginald's throat. "You expect nobles and merchants to collect dung and filth so their peasants may eat? Ridiculous."
"That's not ridiculous," Toki said, his temper flaring like a torch in dry straw. "It's practical. Organic matter returns nutrients to exhausted soil faster than any luxury imports. The alternative is rot and starvation."
Bernard snorted softly, amused despite the stakes. "Do you mean to turn our markets into dumps, Toki? The nobles will never accept such humiliation."
"They will accept bread over empty plates," Toki countered. "If pride means people will die, then I choose humanity over pride."
The advisers muttered; Harold's face had gone pale. Reginald's hands curled into fists beneath the table. Even Gerald Smith, who had a hard face like carved stone, gave a slow, small nod. He was a man who had seen improvised battlefield solutions blossom when logic had said none could. He appreciated the sharpness of Toki's pragmatism.
"You propose we use royal funds to implement a mass sanitation and fertilization campaign?" asked an adviser, leaning forward like a judge.
"Yes," said Toki. "For a time. Until the soil recovers and the people can keep themselves alive. We must—"
"Collect feces?" Reginald interrupted, voice full of contempt. "No. Not on my watch. I will not soil my hands with this humiliation."
Toki's fingers tightened on the table. He felt the heat in his chest—a blend of anger, sorrow, and resolve. "Then let the nobles die on their principles," he said flatly, more a whisper than a provocation. "I will take the burden. I will go into the districts and see to the work myself if none of you will."
For a beat the chamber froze. A cold wind seemed to slip through the stone. The advisers tittered with scorn. Reginald's face reddened into an open rictus of fury.
"Preposterous," he spat. "You would sully your station."
"You're right," Toki said, rising until his shoulders creaked with the effort. He stepped up and placed both palms upon the table, leaning in until his face was a breath from the King's. He did not shout; he did not beg. He simply spoke the truth as he saw it.
"Prefer I drown in filth than drown in guilt," he said, voice low and clear. "If picking up dung means a child will eat next winter, then I will do it. I'd rather soil my hands than let people starve. That is what being a knight means. Protecting the innocent is not a ceremony to be observed from a throne. It is action, and action is sometimes unglamorous."
There was a long, jagged silence.
Harold, who had been watching Toki with a long arc of reserve, swallowed. He had been trained on rules, discipline, and how nobles often swallowed the blood of the poor with a neat conscience. But something about Toki's steel had begun to wear down the old soldier's walls.
Bernard's face, meanwhile, had a strange expression: amusement folding into a reluctant respect. He had watched this man make impossible things happen, and he knew stubbornness when he saw it.
Reginald's mouth opened and closed like a fish. The boy's sense of entitlement had always been shallow bravado; Toki's words were a kind of tidal force that left that insolence looking ridiculous.
"Very well," King Mathias said at last. His voice had been soft, but it carried the weight of mountains now. "You are willing to shoulder this, Toki?"
Toki nodded, simple as a soldier's answer. "I will shoulder it. I will go with the Fourth Division, with any volunteers. I will organize collection points. I will petition the treasury for equipment. I will ask the merchants for wagons, and the apprentices for labor. I will not ask for banners. I only ask permission to act."
King Mathias sat back and regarded him for a hard moment. Behind his royal calm there was calculation: the treasury, the anger of nobles, the political ripples. He had seen men who had bent their knee to favor, and others who had bent their knee to wrong. Toki's path was dangerous not only for its physical cost, but for the political one.
"Your plan is unorthodox," the King said slowly. "Using royal funds to reallocate supplies to the periphery, redirecting labor, and instigating a public sanitation project… it will be costly and it will anger many in the court."
"So let them be angry," Toki replied without hesitation.
The King let out a breath that might have been a laugh or a sigh. "You put it plainly. I admire the clarity. Very well: we will issue a royal decree to open the treasury for emergency works. We will send riders to the principal towns and command the governors to cooperate. I will instruct my scribes to prepare letters. I will not let this kingdom starve if I can help it."
A murmur of surprise swept the chamber. Reginald's eyes narrowed like a blade. Bernard let out an exasperated chuckle, and Harold—respect battling with skepticism—nodded.
One of the eldest advisers coughed, haughty disdain returning to his posture. "Your Majesty, to commit the royal coffers to what amounts to municipal sanitation—"
"It is not municipal," King Mathias interrupted coolly. "It is national security. A starving populace will breed disease and unrest. The cost of action will be less than the cost of inaction. Prepare the orders."
The advisor sputtered, but the King's voice had the steadiness of law. "And Toki?" he added, turning to the young commander with a rare warmth. "You will have my writ. You will have access to resources. But understand this: the court will not all stand with you. Some will resent the expense. The merchant houses will grumble. There will be whispers. If you accept what you ask for, you accept their scorn as well."
Toki's jaw set. He met the King's eyes and saw not only command, but something deeper — a recognition of the burden he had asked to bear.
"I accept," Toki said. "I accept whatever they throw at me, scorn, stones, words."
There was a ripple—some rising, some scoffing, some awed. Gerald Smith, who had remained nearly silent through the exchange, finally spoke in his low growl.
Bernard folded his hands, eyes bright. "If the lot are to dig and haul, then so be it
Reginald's voice, thin with rage, piped up: "Then I refuse. I will not soil my hands digging latrines."
"Good," the King said. "We will issue letters to every provincial governor: implement Toki's scheme. We will requisition wagons and labor and we will provide seed and basic tools. Gerald's men will oversee logistics. Bernard's men will organize the harvest distribution. Harold will lead an enforcement group to ensure compliance. Toki will coordinate with all."
The list was read, agreed to, and signed with ink and seal as the chamber hummed with a new kind of motion—a heavy machinery of governance engaged.
When the meeting finally broke, there was exhaustion but also the small flame of hope. The scribes rushed to dispatch riders, the King's seals were affixed, and orders began to spool outward like the spokes of a wheel.
Toki remained for a long moment at the table. He had wanted a quick audience, a blunt assessment, and action. He had provoked the court, been mocked, risen and declared his will. He had compelled the King to act.
As the room emptied, Harold stayed a moment, then walked over. His voice had warmth.
"You're mad," Harold said. "You're reckless. But—" he paused, fingertip on Toki's shoulder—"—you're right. I'll ride with you for the first few days."
Bernard clapped him on the back. "Good. I'll supply wagons and men. And Smith—" He looked toward the old general. "Do you—"
Smith nodded once, curt. "We'll move supply lines. And Toki? If any of the nobles come screaming about their honor, tell them to go to the outskirts and hand a loaf to a child. Then we'll see how their honor holds."
Toki allowed himself half a smile. It was small and honest and tired. "Thank you. All of you."
Outside the chamber, in the long corridor, the King paused. He looked at Toki with a look like a man appraising a horse—thinking of its strength and its scars.
"Toki," he said quietly, "you should know that your name will be on lips tonight—with gratitude and with curses. That is the burden of men who move nations."
Toki nodded. "I know. I will carry both."
King Mathias hesitated. "One more thing. When this ends—when we are past winter—I wish to speak with you alone. There are matters about you I wish to understand."
Toki's chest tightened. Curiosity flickered like a candle in his gut. "At your command, Your Majesty."
They exchanged a look heavy with unspoken things—pasts, secrets, debts unpaid—and then Toki turned, stepping down the palace steps that led to the yard where Umma waited. Outside, the air bit at his cheeks with autumn's hard edge. The fields had already begun to hunch into winter's rest.
As he mounted his giant bird, his squad assembled at the ready: Bernard's men, Gerald's logisticians, Harold's small detachment, and a throng of volunteers—farmers, apprentices, and a few disgruntled nobles who would sooner curse than refuse. The first wagons filled with tools, sacks, barrels, and the thin counting of the treasury's emergency coin.
Toki looked once at the palace, at the banners flapping quietly against the slate sky, at the king's silhouette in the doorway, and then he set his jaw. There were no speeches left to be made. Now the work would be.
He leaned into Umma's neck and said, more to himself than to anyone, "We'll make the earth sing again. Or we'll die trying."
And with the flapping of great wings and a scattered cry from the peasantry below, he rushed toward the peripheries he had sworn to save, the first steps of a winter that would test not only stomachs but hearts and honor alike.