The lower quarters of the village were a world apart. Cracked rooftops jutted at odd angles, patched with bamboo, clay, and rags scavenged from old carts. Mud paths twisted between huts, turning to thick red sludge after every rain, sticking to bare feet and worn sandals alike. Smoke from the upper kilns floated down lazily, curling through alleys like thin ghosts, mingling with the scent of ash, wet earth, and iron.
Asha's home was at the very edge, a crooked hut leaning toward the scrubland beyond. Inside, the single room held a hammock, a small pile of drying herbs, and patched clothes that carried the weight of years. Beyond the outskirts, the land stretched toward the fens, dark and marshy. Legends spoke of creatures that lurked there—centipedes, enormous and vicious, faster than men, merciless in attack. Until now, such tales had been treated as myth.
But the notice changed everything. The king had demanded one person from every household to join the frontlines. Normally, this duty fell to men, but this time the rules made no distinction: strength or weakness, young or old, all were to obey. The kingdom had not sent trained soldiers; instead, it sent slaves. The reasoning was cruel but clear: test survival, conserve the army, and punish the powerless.
The old stories were true—but it had been decades since anyone had faced them(war with centipedes), so many still hoped there might be a way to survive. For the first time in generations, myth collided with reality, and the danger was no longer just a tale.
Life in the village was harsh. Bells marked the hours, overseers carried orders, and every action was watched. Punishments were swift, mercy almost unknown. Children learned early to keep their heads down and to treasure fleeting joys: a stolen piece of fruit, a laugh in secret, or the warmth of another human hand.
Asha and he had each other. Five years of love, of engagement, of quiet intimacy, had made their bond their only certainty. Yet even in their small sanctuary, the notice cast a long shadow. Her partner's body was fragile, prone to illness, incapable of surviving the journey. And now, the cruel rules demanded a choice. Whoever went would likely not return. Whoever stayed would bear the weight of fear, helplessness, and the memory of absence.
The village seemed to hold its breath. The red mud, the leaning huts, the smoke, and the reeds—they all whispered the same truth: the world beyond the outskirts was no longer a story. It was real, and death walked silently among them. Asha understood immediately: she would have to act, even if it meant defying tradition, stepping where custom said she shouldn't, and risking everything to save him.