Famine
The farmsland of AURENFALL should have been gold this time of year . Instead they lay is brittles shade of grey . Stalk snapping under the weight of a wind that carried only the smell of ash .
Farmers knelt in dirt . clawing at the soil with cracked hands , searching for anything lying bneath the soil,their children stood silent ,eyes filled with hunger ,to weak to cry
Somewhere a cow bellowed a low hollow sound before falling still .
Serenya reined her horse at the edge of the largest Field ,the hem of her riding cloak dragging in the dust . The air burned her lungs . The famine had come slow like a plague , turning the once rich farm fields of aurenfall into a graveyard.
Its wasn't only the hunger that haunted them. Rumors moved faster then the wind
Whisper that famine was no act of nature , but the curse from vampire king .
Riding around the capital Princess serenya gripped the rein tighter .
If it were her decision the granaries would be opened to the people without hesitation
But in aurenfall , decision belong to their _king_her father
And compassion was never his strongest virture .
Riding through market royal solider forced open the grainhouse . They weighted out rations that would never be enough , ignoring the pleading vioce around them , a women collapsed at the solider feet , begging for more then the meager handful she'd been given . The solider gaze was empty as the barrens Field .
"Yours highness " captain Rhys murmured besides her " we should return to the place before the crowd get restless "
"Restless" that was his word . Serenya saw
Something far sharper their eyes __ desperation the kind that could turn to violence in an instant and still her father could call them ungrateful would blame the famine on Vampire king
"Your Highness " came the voice of Rhys again " we should had back to palace before nightfall"
I'll return soon but there is still a place I need to visit " she Said pulling the hood of her Cloak tighter.
The captain frowned. "Your father—"
"My father need not hear of this." Her voice sharpened, ending the discussion. She waved him and the others away, ordering them to wait by the old bridge a half mile back. Reluctantly, they obeyed.
When they were gone, she slipped down a narrow dirt path between withered hedges, clutching the small bundle in her arms — a sack of grain, a heel of bread, and a flask of clean water.
The old couple's cottage stood alone at the edge of the fields, its roof sagging under years of neglect. She knocked gently. The door creaked open to reveal two gaunt faces, eyes widening in disbelief as she placed the bundle in their trembling hands.
"It isn't much," she said softly, "but it will keep you through the week."
Before they could thank her, a sharp sound shattered the fragile moment — the snap of a branch in the treeline.
Serenya turned, her pulse quickening.
Three figures stepped from the shadows, ragged men with knives glinting in the fading light.
"Well now," one sneered, "what's a fine lady like you doing all alone out here?"
Serenya stepped in front of the old woman, her cloak flaring as she drew her sword.
"I'd advise you to leave," she said, her voice calm but her pulse hammering.
The three men only grinned, spreading out in a slow arc. One lunged first — she met his strike with a sharp clang of steel, shoving him back. But the second was already moving, forcing her to twist and parry again.
They were quick. Too quick for her to keep her footing and protect the woman behind her. The third attacker slipped in from the side, his blade grazing her arm. Pain flared hot and sharp, but she kept swinging.
A hard shove from one of them knocked her backward. Her sword wavered in her grip. She wasn't going to win this alone.
A sudden shout cut through the din.
From the treeline, a tall man in a dark cloak strode forward, drawing a longsword in one fluid motion. He moved like a trained soldier — precise footwork, every strike purposeful. His first blow sent one assailant stumbling to the ground. The second tried to catch him off guard, but the stranger blocked high, slammed his hilt into the man's jaw, and swept his leg out from under him.
The last man hesitated, looking between the stranger and Serenya, then made a break for the woods. The stranger didn't bother chasing him.
Instead, he turned to her. "You handle a sword well," he said, his voice low, steady.
She lifted her chin, gripping her blade tightly. "I can take care of myself."
A faint smile curved his lips — almost respectful. "Then make sure you do. The roads aren't safe, Princess."
Her breath caught. "How do you—?"
But he was already walking away, sword sheathed, his cloak disappearing into the trees like he'd never been there at all.
The drawbridge groaned under the weight of her horse as she crossed into the courtyard. The sun had already dipped low, staining the sky in shades of crimson and gold. She dismounted quickly, keeping her injured arm close to her side.
But she didn't get far before a familiar voice called out.
"Your Highness!"
Elira, her maid since childhood, came hurrying down the stone steps. Her hands went straight to Serenya's arm, her brow furrowing as she spotted the slash through the sleeve and the blood beneath.
"What happened? You've been gone for hours and—by the Saints, you're bleeding!"
"It's nothing," Serenya said, trying to pull away. "Just a scratch."
Elira didn't buy it for a second. "A scratch doesn't tear fine silk, and it doesn't put that look on your face."
"I told you, it's nothing," Serenya repeated, a little sharper this time. But the memory of the forest pressed at her mind — the three men, the glint of steel, the cloaked stranger moving like shadow and steel combined.
Elira exhaled slowly, clearly unconvinced but choosing not to push further. "Come. At least let me clean it before your father sees."
They moved through the great hall, Serenya's boots echoing against the marble floor. The air inside was heavy with the smell of burning oil and the low murmur of courtiers beyond the throne room doors.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew her father would not approve of her wandering into famine-stricken villages — especially alone.
The long oak table in the royal dining hall gleamed under the light of the great iron chandelier. Silver platters of roast game and steaming bread sat untouched before Serenya. Her arm still ached beneath the fresh bandage, but it was her father's gaze that felt heavier.
"You were in the outer villages again," King Aldric said, his voice even but laced with disapproval.
Serenya set down her knife. "They're starving, Father. The harvest has failed—"
"The harvest is my concern," he interrupted, spearing a slice of venison. "Your concern is to remain safe within these walls. Do you think the heir to Aurenfall should be playing nursemaid to peasants?"
Before Serenya could reply, her half-brother leaned back in his chair, mouth full of bread. "Well, at least she's doing something. I heard half the farmers are so thin they could hide behind a fence post." He chuckled at his own joke, oblivious to the sharp glance from his sister.
"Joren," Aldric said with a sigh, "you would do well to listen more and speak less."
Joren only shrugged, reaching for the wine jug and nearly tipping it over. "Just saying, maybe if the Vampire King's men stop raiding, we'd have grain to eat instead of… whatever this is." He poked at the venison like it had personally offended him.
Serenya's fork froze halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean, the Vampire King's men?"
Her father's gaze flickered briefly toward her before settling back on his plate. "There will be a treaty soon. That is all you need to know."
But Serenya knew her father well enough to hear the weight behind his words. Treaties were rarely about peace — they were about survival.