Page 18 of Kingdom of Lies

10

DRAKNIR

As we make our way to her small hut on the outskirts of the village, I can't help but take in my surroundings. The ramshackle buildings and dirt roads give off a sense of poverty and struggle. It's a stark contrast to the grandeur and luxury I am used to.

How do these humans survive in such conditions?

It makes the orphanage I grew up in look like a palace. The air is thick with the smell of burning wood and the sounds of chickens clucking and children playing. My shoes sink into the soft earth beneath me as we navigate through the unpaved paths, lined with makeshift homes and dilapidated structures.

It's clear that life here is not easy, but there is an unmistakable sense of community amongst these people. Despite their humble living conditions, they seem content and happy. It's a humbling experience for someone like me, who thought I’d known what it was like to be poor.

"So tell me about yourself," I say, trying to learn more about my fake mate. I’ll need a few details to make this look realistic.

"I take care of the dripir." She winces. “They’re meaner than you’d think.”

I smirk. The mousy little human is a complete mess. But I suppose it’s kind of endearing…

"I see..." That certainly tracks. "Sounds like hard work."

“Only when they bite or try to escape. It would be easier if they weren’t so hungry, but there’s not always enough feed for them.”

We pass by the central well where women wash laundry and chat. A few children run by, kicking a leather ball and laughing.

As we round the bend, a charming stone church comes into view, its steeple reaching towards the bright blue sky. The thatched roof cottages, with their colorful flower boxes and neatly trimmed gardens, seem to bow to its grandeur, despite the shabby exterior. An elderly priest stands on the steps, his broom still in hand as he watches us curiously.

Beside me, the young girl speaks animatedly about her grandmother and their daily routine in this small village.

I suppose it’s not without its charm.

The deeper we traverse, the more I’m struck with resilience and determination in the face of poverty. People making the most of what they have, adoring their meager lodgings in flowers.

Perhaps I judged them too harshly.

The road stretches on ahead, leading us past endless fields of wheat. Each stalk glimmers like gold in the gentle breeze that rolls through the countryside.

Farmer's carts, heavily loaded with hay, apples, and various livestock, trundle along at a leisurely pace.

In the distance, the mayor’s lodging rises above the rest, the fields and industry all centrally located around him, the living conditions greatly improving.

In the shadow of his villa rests a shock of small cottages, nearest to the stables.

We make our way down the winding, narrow lane that leads to Kathleen's cottage… I have walk-in closets that are bigger…

The walls of the cottage are made of dilapidated stone, with tall weeds surrounding the walls. In the distance, a goat bleats from a small pen, adding to the rustic…. charm of the place.

Everything here smells like animal shit.

"This is where my grandmother and I live," Kathleen says with a grimace, leading me towards the front door. I survey the homely little cottage in utter bewilderment. It's a far cry from the grand estates and lavish manors of my elvish kin.

I've never had a true home or family after my mother died. The military barracks have served as my closest approximation of a home, but even they cannot compare to this small dwelling.

My eyes are drawn to the sight of Kathleen's grandmother lying motionless under thin, threadbare blankets. The air is thick with the musty scent of decay and fear as another frail, elderly human scurries away at our approach. These creatures are so weak and timid, it's a wonder they survive at all.

I can see the worry etched on Kathleen's face as she tends to her grandmother. Despite the conditions, it is clear that she cares deeply for this woman. As her supposed "mate," I should make some effort to assist in any way I can.

Slowly, an elderly woman hobbles out from the single room. Her back is hunched and her steps are careful, as if any sudden movement could be too much for her frail bones. As soon as she spots me, her eyes widen in fear and her mouth forms into a small 'o'.

"A dark elf!" she gasps, clutching tightly at the edges of her shawl. "Oh heavens, what are you doing here?"

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