Ardellon, The Starving Land

The afternoon wind gently swept across the barren plains north of Selvaria. Dust particles flew, carried by the scent of dry soil that seemed to have not felt rain in ages. The rhythmic footsteps of two riders echoed on the rocky path, breaking the silence accompanied only by the whistle of prairie birds. Lyselle sat upright in the saddle, her eyes sharp, observing every corner of the horizon. Beside her, Caelan, with his black hair tied back simply, occasionally glanced at a worn-out map in his hand.

"If we follow this route, we'll enter Ardellon from the western side," Caelan said, his voice low but clear, almost lost to the wind. "According to the reports I've received, the fields there... were deliberately left to be ruined. There are rumors it was a direct order from Duke Varrick."

Lyselle held her breath for a moment, looking at the cracked earth on either side of them. "Deliberately letting the people starve... that's not just negligence. It's a calculated crime."

They continued to ride, and as they got closer to Ardellon, the landscape changed drastically. Dry grass replaced lush green, trees stood like brittle skeletons, and a faint foul smell began to emanate from the direction of the fields. In the distance, they saw figures walking limply, carrying empty baskets on their backs. Their clothes were tattered, their skin pale, and their eyes hollow.

Caelan lowered his voice, as if he didn't want the wind to carry his words too far. "The people here must be suspicious of outsiders. We have to enter carefully. If not, all doors will be closed to us."

Lyselle nodded. "And we won't get any information."

Half an hour later, they arrived at a simple wooden archway that read "West Ardellon." The paint was peeling, the posts were weathered, and there was only one guard, an old man with a rusty spear in his hand. He looked at the two of them with suspicion.

"What's your business in Ardellon?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

Lyselle gave a thin smile, lowering the hood of her cloak. "We're traveling merchants. We're carrying cloth, medicine, and some farming tools. We heard there's a need for supplies here."

The guard squinted, then glanced at their saddlebags. "If you want to come in, don't expect to sell anything for a high price. The people here... don't even have enough coins to buy bread."

There was a brief pause. Lyselle deliberately took a piece of woven cloth from her bag and showed it to him. "We can also barter. Goods for goods. No one will be at a disadvantage."

The man sighed, then gestured with his spear. "Come in. But... be careful what you ask."

As they stepped through the archway, the sight of Ardellon unfolded before them: the dirt road that might have once been busy was now deserted, the wooden houses creaked in the wind, and on every corner, gaunt faces stared without a word. Children sat in front of houses, hugging their knees, their eyes following every step Lyselle and Caelan took.

"Do you see that?" Caelan whispered, bending down as if to check his horse's reins. "There are no open markets. All transactions are done behind closed doors. This means they are afraid."

Lyselle nodded slowly. "Afraid of whom... or what."

They stopped at an old well. A young woman was drawing a bucket of water, her body as thin as a twig. Lyselle dismounted, pretending to adjust her saddle strap, then greeted her, "Is the water very deep?"

The woman turned briefly, her eyes full of wariness. "It's deeper now than usual. It hasn't rained in a long time."

Lyselle leaned in a little, lowering her voice. "Are the fields outside the village still being worked?"

The question made the woman stop for a moment, then she looked down. "Asking things like that... can make people disappear." She handed the bucket to a small child nearby, then quickly walked away.

Caelan approached Lyselle, watching the woman's back as she disappeared around the corner. "She knows something."

Lyselle looked at the small ripples in the well. "Yes. And she's too scared to say it here."

They continued on, entering narrow alleys between the houses. Every window they passed seemed half-closed, the worn-out curtains swaying gently. At one point, they saw a middle-aged man sitting on a front porch, sharpening a knife. His gaze was sharp, following them without blinking.

"We're being watched," Caelan muttered without turning his head.

"Not just him," Lyselle answered softly. "Since we entered, there have been three different people watching us from a distance."

The sky began to darken, the sun slipping behind gray clouds. They decided to find an inn before dark. At the end of the main road, they found a two-story building with a nearly-collapsed sign that read "Old Bird Inn." A dim oil lamp was lit inside.

As they entered, they were greeted by the smell of stale vegetable soup. The owner, a plump man with thin hair, welcomed them with a thin smile. "A room for two?"

Lyselle nodded. "And dinner, if possible."

The owner looked at them from head to toe, as if weighing them. "Of course. But... payment upfront."

Caelan placed a few coins on the table. The owner took them quickly, then gave them a wooden key. "The room is upstairs, at the very end. Don't go out late at night. There are a lot of... strangers roaming around."

They went up to the room, closing the door tightly. Lyselle sat on the edge of the bed, taking off her leather gloves. "Did you hear his tone? 'Strangers roaming around'... as if it's a warning."

Caelan placed the map on the small table, marking the locations they had passed. "Tomorrow we have to start from the fields on the eastern side. If sabotage really is happening, the traces must be there."

Lyselle stared at the map for a long time, then nodded. "But before that... we have to find out who has been watching us since we entered."

There was a moment of silence. Outside, the wind blew, bringing the sound of a creaking door, then faint footsteps in the hallway below. Ardellon wasn't just starving... it was being watched by eyes that never slept.

Dawn in Ardellon came without color. A gray sky hung low, and the morning air carried the scent of dust mixed with a faint, foul odor that clung to their throats. Lyselle and Caelan were ready even before the sun appeared. They weren't wearing their usual cloaks—instead, they disguised themselves as small merchants from the western border. Lyselle wore a simple faded brown dress, her hair neatly braided, while Caelan wore a long gray coat with a basket on his back.

"The main market wasn't visible yesterday," Caelan said, tightening his basket's straps. "This means the market here is a closed one... or it changes locations."

Lyselle nodded slowly, her gaze scanning the empty road in front of the inn. "We have to lure them into talking. And the way to do that isn't with direct questions."

They went out, walking down the dirt road that was still slightly muddy from the night's dew. Occasionally, people passed by carrying empty baskets or cloth sacks, but they all kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact. At a turn, Caelan stopped, his eyes narrowing.

"Do you see that?" He pointed to the brick wall of a house on the right. There was a faint mark scratched into the stone—a small circle with three diagonal lines inside it.

Lyselle approached, observing. "A meeting sign... or a directional code. Let's follow it."

They walked, following similar signs scattered on the corners of buildings. The trail led them to a narrow alley behind a row of houses. At the end of the alley, a wooden door was half-open. From inside came a low murmur and the inviting smell of boiled vegetables, a stark contrast to the cold air outside.

As soon as they entered, the sight was revealed: a small market hidden in an inner courtyard, protected by high walls. Wooden tables were filled with wilted vegetables, dried fish, black bread, and some bartering items like cloth and farming tools. Everyone moved quickly, whispering, as if afraid their voices would carry outside.

Lyselle walked slowly between the stalls, her hands occasionally touching the goods as if assessing their quality. She caught a faint conversation between two women nearby.

"The harvest this year isn't even half of what it should be..." "That's because the fields are burned at night."

The last sentence made Lyselle pretend to bend down, grabbing a bunch of green onions, but her ears were focused. The woman continued, "Varrick's henchmen... they wait until night. They say the land 'needs to rest.' Nonsense. It's to make us starve."

Caelan, who was standing slightly behind her, raised a thin eyebrow, signaling with his eyes. Lyselle nodded slightly, then approached an old seller who was selling small, cracked potatoes.

"Which field are these potatoes from, sir?" Lyselle asked in a friendly tone.

The man looked at her for a moment, then went back to arranging his goods. "The eastern field. Just what was left. The rest was forcibly plowed under."

"Forcibly?" Lyselle prompted.

The man stopped his movements. His eyes darted nervously from side to side before he whispered, "You have to be careful. Varrick's ears are here." He gestured vaguely toward a tall, muscular man standing at the end of the market, who was pretending to examine some dried fish.

Caelan gently touched Lyselle's shoulder, signaling her to move away. They both pretended to be done with their shopping, then moved toward the market's exit. But halfway there, the tall man stepped in front of them, blocking their way.

"You're new faces," he said, his voice heavy. "Where are you merchants from?"

Lyselle gave a thin smile, her voice calm. "From the west, through Selvaria. We heard Ardellon needs supplies."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Ardellon doesn't need merchants. We need loyalty."

The sentence sounded more like a threat than a statement. Caelan lifted the basket on his back. "Loyalty doesn't fill a hungry stomach."

The man stared at them for a long time, then walked away without another word. Lyselle only let out a sigh of relief after they were outside the hidden market.

"He's a spy," Caelan said softly.

Lyselle nodded. "And he knows we're not ordinary merchants."

They walked away from the market, heading toward the eastern side of the village. The road became emptier, with only a few wooden warehouses on either side. In the distance, they could see a vast field full of scorched corn stalks and cracked earth.

As they got closer, the sight became even worse. Some of the land seemed to have been deliberately burned, leaving black ashes mixed with plant remains. Lyselle knelt down, took a handful of soil, and rubbed it between her fingers.

"This isn't a natural crop failure," she said softly. "This soil was burned with oil. Look... the color isn't uniform."

Caelan examined the remaining corn stalks. "And look at this. The stalk is cut cleanly, as if by a sharp tool, not withered and dead."

They looked at each other. "Sabotage," Lyselle said softly.

Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps came from the west. Lyselle gestured, and they quickly hid behind a pile of empty sacks near a warehouse. Three men appeared, each carrying a torch even though the sun was starting to rise. They talked as they walked through the field.

"We'll burn the southern fields tonight," one of them said. "Direct order from the overseer."

"And make sure no one dares to put it out," the other added. "The Duke wants the harvest to be only half of what it normally is. He says it's to control the market."

Lyselle memorized every word in her head. Once the three men were far away, Caelan whispered, "Now we have proof. But we need the name of that overseer."

Lyselle gave a thin smile. "And for that, we have to go deeper... into Varrick's inner circle."

They left the fields, returning to the small, quiet road. In the sky, the gray clouds grew thicker, and a cold wind began to blow from the north. Ardellon felt like a city that was breathing slowly... but every breath was filled with fear.

The afternoon sun in Ardellon looked gloomy—its orange light dimmed, covered by thick gray clouds. Lyselle and Caelan sat at a corner table in a small, nearly empty tavern. The bland smell of cabbage soup mixed with the thick scent of wood smoke. They chose this tavern not for its food, but for its strategic location: near the entrance to Duke Varrick's surveillance complex.

Caelan slowly spooned his soup, his eyes looking out the window. "The people outside never stop looking over their shoulders," he said softly.

Lyselle stirred her soup without the intention of eating it. "Fear has become a part of them. That's what Varrick wants."

A faint conversation from the next table made them sharpen their ears. Two men in farmworker clothes sat sipping local liquor.

"The overseer tonight... isn't old Rengel anymore, it's Garron," one of them said, looking down.

"Garron? The one who used to be the city guard captain?"

"Yeah. Ever since he was fired from the army, he's become more cruel. Varrick likes him."

The name immediately triggered a flash of a plan in Lyselle's head. She leaned toward Caelan. "Garron. He's the overseer of the southern fields tonight. That could be an opening."

Caelan raised an eyebrow. "An opening... or a trap."

Lyselle gave a thin smile. "Every trap can be turned around... if we're the ones setting it."

They decided to leave the tavern after paying. The evening streets of Ardellon were filled with people hurrying home, avoiding the darkness. Lyselle and Caelan walked toward the hidden market they had visited that morning, but this time they didn't go in—they circled the building toward the back alley.

It was there that they found a small, unmarked wooden door, guarded by a muscular man. Lyselle walked first, a thin smile on her lips. "We heard Garron needs extra hands for the night patrol," she said as if it were common news.

The guard looked at them from top to bottom. "Who are you?"

"Merchants who are bored of trading," Caelan answered flatly. "And don't mind getting paid for night work."

The man chuckled, but his eyes remained sharp. "Outsiders usually die quickly here."

Lyselle didn't break her gaze. "Outsiders can also make your master rich faster... if they know how."

There was a brief pause. Then the man opened the door and gestured for them to enter. Inside, the dim room was filled with men with harsh faces. Some were sharpening knives, while others were checking torches and oil jugs. In a corner, a large man with a long scar on his jaw stood examining a list in his hand.

"Garron," Lyselle whispered softly to Caelan.

The man raised his head as they approached. "You're not faces I recognize."

Caelan looked straight at him. "We're not faces that are easy to remember."

A thin smile appeared on Garron's lips—a smile that never reached his eyes. "I like people who don't talk much. But I don't like traitors. You'll come with us tonight and prove yourselves."

Lyselle realized this wasn't just an opportunity, but a test. They were each given a torch and an oil jug. "We're going to the southern fields. The orders are clear: burn the remaining crops, and make sure no one dares to approach."

Night fell quickly in Ardellon. They moved in small groups toward the fields they had seen that afternoon. The fire from the torches reflected on the hard faces around Lyselle, casting long, dancing shadows on the ground.

When Garron ordered them to start pouring the oil, Lyselle pretended to follow, but in reality, she only spilled a small amount on the barren ground. Caelan, on the other hand, used the darkness to observe who else seemed to be giving orders besides Garron. He noticed a thin man in a leather cloak who often whispered in Garron's ear—it was clear he wasn't an ordinary person.

When the torches began to be thrown onto the piles of dry plants, the flames quickly ignited. Black smoke began to billow up, stinging their noses. In the middle of the chaos, Lyselle approached Garron.

"I heard Varrick isn't always satisfied with your burning results," she said softly.

Garron turned, his gaze sharp. "Who told you?"

"People who pay for a 'cleaner' result," Lyselle replied slyly. "I can give you a profit... if you know how to listen."

Garron looked at her for a long time, then chuckled. "You're an interesting woman. We'll talk about this later, at the headquarters."

The brief conversation was enough to put them on Garron's radar—and from there, into Varrick's circle of trusted men.

After the fire died down, they returned to the hidden building in the back alley of the market. Garron gave each of them a small bag of copper coins.

"Come back tomorrow night. I want to see if you're smart enough to survive here."

Lyselle and Caelan left the place without showing any joy or fear. Only after they were on the dark, empty road did Caelan whisper, "You just signed a contract with the devil."

Lyselle smiled faintly. "The devil is the best teacher... as long as we know when to stab him."

Their footsteps continued to carry them away from the town center, past the darkened houses, toward the inn. In the distance, the southern fields were still giving off a thin smoke, the smell of burning carried by the night wind—a smell that reminded them that their time in Ardellon was running out.

The sound of light rain washed over the inn's roof as Lyselle and Caelan returned from their patrol with Garron. Their steps were slow, not because of fatigue, but because their minds were busy mapping out the pieces of information they had just obtained.

Caelan lit a candle in their room, then took off his wet coat. "Garron is a loyal dog to Varrick, but I doubt he knows the real reason these fields are being left to die."

Lyselle sat on the edge of the bed, pushing back her damp hair. "Maybe he doesn't need to know. His job is just to make sure this land can't feed anyone."

"And to make the people more dependent on Varrick's supplies," Caelan added, pouring warm tea from a small teapot.

"Starvation isn't a side effect, it's a weapon."

Lyselle looked out the window, thinking about those words. "If that's true, then we're dealing with a plan that's much bigger than just local power."

That night they decided to return to Garron's headquarters the next day, not just to "burn" the fields, but to infiltrate deeper.

The Next Night

Garron's headquarters was bustling again. Torches hung on the walls, and the smell of alcohol mixed with kerosene filled the air. Garron was sitting at a large table, examining some documents. Lyselle knew this was their moment.

"I brought something for you," Lyselle said, placing a small bag on the table.

Garron opened the bag and found a few gold coins. His eyes narrowed. "Where did you get these?"

"That's the wrong question," Lyselle replied casually. "The right question is: 'What can I do with these?'"

Garron gave a crooked smile. "You have a dangerous way of talking, woman." He gestured for everyone to leave the room, leaving only himself, Lyselle, and Caelan.

Once the door was closed, Lyselle leaned in. "We want to enter the circle of people who really know what's going on in Ardellon. Not just the field workers... but the people who are orchestrating this whole game."

Garron tapped his fingers on the table. "That's not safe territory."

"Safety has never fed a hungry stomach," Caelan said coldly.

After a long silence, Garron stood up and took a parchment scroll from a shelf. "This is a list of the storage warehouses that are under the Duke's direct supervision. They don't just contain food... but something more valuable."

Lyselle reached out, but Garron pulled the scroll back. "If you want this, you'll come with me tonight. We'll escort a shipment from the eastern warehouse to the palace."

The Journey to the Eastern Warehouse

The rain was getting heavier when they arrived at an old stone building that was heavily guarded. Oil lamps along the fence cast a pale light on the puddles. From the outside, the warehouse looked ordinary—but as the large door was opened, they were greeted by a far-from-ordinary sight.

Large sections filled with dry wheat and corn were neatly arranged, but on the other side of the room were wooden crates engraved with Varrick's crest. Caelan saw some soldiers moving the crates onto sturdy iron-wheeled wagons.

"What's in them?" Caelan asked, pretending to be nonchalant.

"None of your business," one of the guards cut in sharply.

Lyselle paid attention to the details: each crate was sealed with black wax with a symbol she didn't recognize. She committed its shape to memory.

When they left the warehouse, the convoy moved toward the palace. The road was slick, the wagon wheels creaked, and the night air was filled with the smell of wet metal. Along the way, Lyselle tried to get closer to the crates to get a better look, but Garron always made sure they kept their distance.

At Varrick's Palace Gate

Ardellon Palace stood proudly on a hill, looking down on the city with its gray stone towers. The gates were made of heavy iron, decorated with dragon carvings. Guards with spears stood straight, their faces as cold as statues.

The convoy entered without any significant inspection—a sign that Garron had a special status. However, Lyselle managed to catch a whisper from one of the guards: "The next shipment to the northern port... make sure it doesn't get leaked."

The port. That word triggered a new plan in her head.

Inside the Palace Storage Room

They stopped in a large room in the palace's basement. There, in addition to the newly brought crates, there were dozens more. The sound of water dripping from the stone ceiling and the light of oil lamps flickered in the damp air.

Lyselle pretended to help unload a crate while observing the black wax seal more closely. This time she saw it clearly—the symbol was a combination of the Varrick family crest and a mark she had seen in secret documents belonging to Inquisitor Bellos in Selvaria.

Caelan, on the other hand, was watching the workers moving sacks of wheat. Each sack was marked with a red letter: "T." He asked one of the workers, but only got a blank stare and a shrug.

Back to Garron's Headquarters

The night was getting late when they returned to the headquarters. Garron seemed satisfied with tonight's "mission," but Lyselle knew that his satisfaction meant he wouldn't be suspicious if they moved quietly.

Once they were alone in the inn, Lyselle drew the black wax symbol on a piece of paper. "This isn't just about food trade. This is the delivery of illegal goods disguised as wheat supplies."

Caelan leaned back in his chair. "And if the northern port is involved... that means this is a much larger network than just Ardellon."

Lyselle looked at him seriously. "We have to go to the port before they send the next shipment. If we can prove that Varrick is deliberately letting the fields fail to monopolize the supply... we'll have a formal reason to attack him."

"And a personal reason," Caelan added softly.

They both fell silent for a moment, listening to the sound of the rain getting heavier outside. In the distance, lightning struck, illuminating the shadow of Varrick's palace towers against the night sky. A sign that a storm—both in the sky and in politics—was about to break.

Dawn had not yet fully broken when Lyselle and Caelan left the inn. A thin fog covered the streets of Ardellon, making the slick stones glisten palely. They moved quickly, wearing gray cloaks that obscured their identities.

The northern port was located outside the city walls, on the edge of a bay that was always covered in salty mist. From a distance, they could hear the shouts of laborers and the creak of ship ropes. The smell of fish mixed with oil was strong.

They decided to enter from the western side, where the old, rarely used docks were. Caelan climbed a weathered wooden fence, then helped Lyselle follow. From behind a pile of empty crates, they observed the activity on the main dock.

Three large ships were anchored, each carrying the flag of Ardellon. Crates with the same black wax seals as the ones at the palace yesterday were being lifted one by one onto the ships.

"This isn't an ordinary shipment," Lyselle whispered.

Caelan nodded. "And look, there are heavily armed guards on every path. Not cargo guards... but secret guards."

They waited until one of the empty wagons returned to the port warehouse. When the small gate opened, Lyselle slipped inside with the agility of a cat. Inside, they found a pile of documents on a wooden table, surrounded by the smell of ink and wax.

Caelan examined one document: a list of shipments that had the same "T" code as the wheat sacks. But the description column contained the names of poor villages outside Ardellon.

"Food aid for starving villages," Lyselle murmured.

"But it's all being routed through the same channel... here," Caelan pointed to a note: "Redistribution – Northern Port – Mayor Dragan's Contract."

That name hung in the air.

The sound of footsteps approached. Lyselle quickly slipped the document under her cloak. The two of them pretended to be examining a crate in the corner of the room when two men entered—one of them wearing a black coat with an army emblem.

"The ship leaves tonight," one of them said in a firm tone. "Dragan is waiting at the handover point."

Lyselle and Caelan looked at each other. This wasn't just evidence of corruption, but a direct link to someone with a military rank.

They waited until the men left, then escaped through the water channel under the dock. The cold current hit their feet as they walked through a narrow tunnel toward the rocky beach.

Once outside, Lyselle took a deep breath. "We have everything we need. Proof of the aid diversion, Varrick's connection, and Mayor Dragan's involvement."

Caelan looked toward Ardellon, which was beginning to be illuminated by the morning light. "That means our next destination is clear. We're going to meet that 'hero'... and uncover his true face."

The fog began to lift, revealing the vast sea. In the distance, the ship with the black wax seal slowly began to move out of the bay. Lyselle clutched the document tightly in her hand.

Today they were leaving Ardellon. Their next destination: the handover point for Mayor Dragan's goods—a "village hero" who, if this evidence was true, had been trading starvation for personal gain.