Chapter 97: The Divide

  The road stretched endlessly ahead, its uneven stones cracked and worn by countless travelers before them. The landscape was dry, desolate, a vast expanse of wilderness that seemed to stretch forever. The wind was hot and dry, carrying dust across the road, making each breath feel heavy. The journey had been long—longer than Marcus had ever traveled before—but at least they were making better time than expected.

  Marcus adjusted his grip on the reins of his mount, rolling his shoulders. The past fourteen days had settled into his bones, a dull ache that no amount of shifting in the saddle could fix.

  He exhaled, muttering, “If it weren’t for Vira casting ‘Haste’ on these damn things, we’d still have a week left.”

  Vira, riding just ahead, glanced back with a smirk. “You’re welcome.”

  Marcus groaned. "I don’t remember thanking you."

  Vira shrugged, “You’re not complaining either.”

  Arixa, who rode beside them, chuckled as she adjusted the strap of her warhammer. "I think he’s just mad he didn’t get to nap through half the trip."

  Marcus sighed, ignoring the comment. He wasn’t going to deny it. The journey had been exhausting, but they had a destination in mind, and wasting time wasn’t an option.

  Thalron, who had been silent for most of the morning, suddenly stiffened.

  "Stop," he ordered, his voice sharp.

  The group immediately froze, the air around them shifting from dry discomfort to something worse.

  Marcus tensed. Something was wrong.

  There was no sound. No distant calls of birds, no rustling of the sparse grass, no wind howling through the hills. Just silence.

  A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision.

  A breath of movement.

  A rustling in the tall, brittle grass.

  Marcus barely had time to register it before figures emerged from the hillside, stepping onto the road and surrounding them.

  The "Bandits"

  A dozen figures, clad in mismatched armor, worn leather, and wielding rusted weapons, blocked their path. Their eyes were sunken, hollow with exhaustion. They were thin—too thin to be real threats.

  Marcus knew immediately.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  These weren’t bandits.

  They didn’t have the muscle of seasoned raiders. Their stances lacked the predatory confidence of true killers.

  They looked desperate.

  Among them, Marcus noticed a few elves, mixed in with mostly humans. Their expressions were strained, their fingers trembling against their weapons. Not with eagerness—but with fear.

  The leader stepped forward, his grip white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. He was barely standing, his stance weak, his movements sluggish. He was starving.

  “Give us your supplies,” the man rasped. His voice was hoarse from dehydration.

  Marcus exhaled through his nose. This wasn’t going to be a fight.

  Before anyone could react, Thalron dismounted.

  “Stay here,” he murmured to them, stepping forward without hesitation.

  The bandits tensed. Their weapons didn’t raise, but they clung to them like lifelines, uncertain.

  Marcus watched as Thalron moved calmly, not a trace of hostility in his movements. He stepped to his mount, opened a saddlebag, and pulled out a small bundle of rations and a pouch of coin.

  Without a word, he held them out toward the "bandit" leader.

  The man froze.

  For a long, painful moment, he simply stared at the offering, his fingers twitching as if unsure if he should take it—as if expecting a trick.

  Then, his knees buckled.

  He collapsed onto the dirt road, his sword falling from his grasp as he grabbed the food instead. His hands trembled violently as he clutched the bread, his lips parting in a choked sob.

  Then, the others broke.

  Weapons clattered to the ground, forgotten. Starving hands reached out, not for gold, not for power, but for survival.

  Some fell to their knees, eating like men who hadn’t had a real meal in weeks. A few wept silently, muttering prayers as they stuffed dry meat into their mouths.

  One of the elves, a woman barely older than Vira, looked up at Thalron with tear-filled eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice raw. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Thalron turned away, his jaw clenched. He climbed back onto his mount, his expression unreadable, but his voice carried a weight none of them could ignore.

  “This is the price of nobility,” he said quietly.

  Marcus looked around again, truly seeing the land for what it was.

  It was dying.

  Crumbling buildings. Dried-up wells. Roads with holes and cracks that had never been repaired. Fences that had fallen long ago, never rebuilt. Children watching from shadows, their faces gaunt with hunger.

  He had seen hardship before. He had seen war. But this?

  This was systematic. Deliberate.

  Marcus exhaled. "What is this place?"

  Thalron tightened his grip on his reins, staring at the horizon.

  "Believe it or not, we’re on the edge of elven lands."

  Marcus’s head snapped toward him. "This is elven land?"

  Thalron nodded. "This is where they send the ones they deem lesser. Half-breeds. Those who can’t afford to live in the capital. The workers, the merchants who failed. Pretty much anyone not high-born ends up here. It’s too far from anywhere else to flee, and most can’t afford to leave. So they stay. And they suffer."

  Marcus clenched his jaw.

  "If it weren’t for you and Fillia, I’d have the worst opinion of elves."

  Thalron chuckled bitterly. "That bad taste in your mouth?"

  Marcus nodded. "It’s getting worse."

  And then, the world changed.

  It started small.

  The cracked earth softened. The dead grass turned green.

  The road, once broken and worn, became smooth beneath their mounts.

  Marcus looked down, eyes narrowing. The road was shimmering.

  Vira slowed her horse, watching the transition. "What the hell?"

  Ahead of them, the slums faded into perfection.

  The poverty and suffering behind them were replaced with pristine fields, towering trees, and the scent of flowers on the wind.

  Then, at last, they saw it.

  Nireen.

  White marble walls, gleaming towers, massive silver-lined gates.

  It was a city of impossible beauty.

  And it was built on the suffering of those they had just passed.

  Marcus exhaled, his fists tightening.

  "Let’s get this over with."

  And with that, they rode toward the gates of Nireen.