The wheat fields of Davra stretched before them—once gold, now a patchwork of brittle stalks and sickly brown rot. What should have been a symbol of survival was nothing more than a graveyard swaying under a dry, cold wind.
The boys from Davra fell silent. No more chatter. Even the seasoned merchants stared in disbelief.
"By the gods," one muttered. "There's nothing left. The curse is back."
Isgram's eyes narrowed. "This happened before?"
The air hung heavy until one of the older merchants cleared his throat. "Long ago... there was a blight they called the curse of the demons. Crops rotted in the fields, just like this. No herb, no salve cured it. They said the soil itself turned evil."
The man looked away. "It came back a few years ago. There were mentions of it in human territory, but it was far away from here.
Then, two years ago, it came to haunt the lands of the dwarves.
Some theorized it is a curse that the demons left to avenge their deaths, and some claim it is the wrath of the god of death himself."
Isgram watched a dead stalk crumble in the wind.
The merchant kept talking. "It spread to our lands a few years ago. Quietly. Small spots, here and there. We hoped it would pass. It didn't."
'I will have to investigate it further with the blacksmiths, it has been a while since I spent my time here, and I never heard of this curse. Maybe Fang's new powers will be helpful here... I will ask him if one of his new books on demonic magic contains a mention of curses.'
He didn't say anything. Just turned and pointed. "Keep moving. Down the hill."
The wagons creaked back into motion. By the time they reached the edge of Davra, the guards had already seen them and opened the gates without question.
The heavy wooden gates creaked shut behind them as they passed through. Davra felt different, more worn than it had in years past. The roads that once bustled with merchants and villagers were quieter now, the usual hum of life replaced by a kind of suffocating silence. Buildings sagged under the weight of years, their shutters half-closed as though trying to hide from the truth.
Even the people, usually busy with some trade or task, moved sluggishly, as though the curse of the demons had seeped into their bones.
"Where's the town council?" Isgram asked, his tone curt as he addressed one of the guards.
The man hesitated before speaking. "They're gathered at the old hall... but you may not find them in much of a mood to talk."
Isgram knew it isn't his place to get involved, but he needed to know what is the state of their new allies.
Isgram nodded. 'Let them mourn. I'll check on the blacksmiths later. First, we deliver.'
Then came the sound of footsteps—light, quick. A familiar rhythm. He turned.
She was a stark contrast to the worn town, her presence almost a burst of light against the backdrop of decay. Her long blonde hair bounced with every step, and her eyes, usually calculating, were wide with excitement. When she saw the wagons, her face broke into a smile that seemed too large for the somber mood of the village.
"Isgram!" she called out, waving eagerly.
Isgram's gaze shifted toward her, and a brief flicker of recognition passed through him. He nodded, though his face remained impassive. He hadn't expected to see her here so soon.
He gave a curt nod. Didn't smile. She ran straight to the wagons, eyes wide, fingers tracing over sacks of grain, bundles of fruit and herbs, jars of seeds.
"Praise Mirabella—you brought so much!" she said, half laughing, half breathless. "This all came from the haven? This is... It's incredible. The soil must be blessed. There's no other way."
She turned to face Isgram, eyes wide with disbelief. "These came from the haven..." Her voice was a mix of awe and joy. "Then that means... this is incredible! The soil there is truly blessed, there isn't any other explanation!"
Her smile reached her eyes, her face glowing with genuine gratitude. "I thought you were only going to send a few things... But this, this is more than we ever could have hoped for."
Isgram let out a short grunt, stepping to her side as the wagons were unhitched. He kept his distance but couldn't help a slight quirk of his lips. Alona's enthusiasm was always infectious, even if the weight of the situation had yet to fully settle on her.
"We have all worked hard on it," he said simply, his gaze shifting back to the town's mournful landscape.
"Especially the boys you sent us. I didn't know that boys can become men so quickly," Said Isgram.
Alona's eyes sparkled with renewed joy as she turned to the merchants, her hands still caressing the bounty brought by the caravan. She swept her gaze over the piles of grain, fruits, and vegetables, her smile unwavering as she addressed the gathered group.
"You all should know," she said, her voice rising with certainty, "these boys, these brave boys... they're the reason we will have food tonight." Her gaze shifted to the young faces among the caravan.
"They've worked tirelessly in the garden of our allies, bringing an abundance of food in harsh conditions. Without them, Davra would have gone to sleep hungry today."
The merchants, who had remained quiet until then, murmured in appreciation, some nodding in agreement. The boys, standing in the back, visibly straightened, the pride in their efforts warming the air around them.
Alona's tone grew serious again, but there was a kind of strength in it. "The plague has already claimed more than half of the harvest this season. We are running out of time, and every scrap of food is a lifeline."
She paused for a moment, letting the gravity of her words sink in before she turned her attention to Isgram, her eyes narrowing just slightly in playful challenge.
The murmurs of the crowds were only getting louder, and the merchants wore faces of grief.
Then she turned to Isgram, voice loud and clear, playful but pointed. "I do hope our dear Isgram won't suddenly raise his prices now that Davra's desperate."
The crowd fell silent. All eyes turned to him.
He blinked. That was a move—clever, bold, and public.
She wanted him to promise fairness. Here. Now. With witnesses.
Isgram leaned on the wagon, smirking. "Of course," he said dryly. "Anything for our allies."
Alona met his eyes, grin sharp with victory.
She turned back to the wagons. "Come on—we need to get this food stored. Move it to the granary."
The group scattered into motion. Isgram lingered, watching her.
She was clever. Dangerous, in a good way.
He followed with a grunt.
"Isgram," she called over her shoulder, "you coming? My father's waiting for news. I'll tally the supplies with the merchants."
He kept walking. 'So be it. Let them see what men of their word look like.'
-------------------
The council of Davra gathered in the mansion of Fujin, a large, stone hall lit by dim, flickering torches. The elves sat in silence, their expressions serious. Some were clean-shaven, the younger members, while others, older and more seasoned, had thick beards. At the head of the table sat Fujin, the oldest among them, his silver beard roughly chopped.
Arguments echoed off the stone walls of Fujin's mansion as the elves debated fiercely. The looming threat of famine weighed heavily on their minds.
One elf, young and hot-headed, slammed his fist on the table. "We cannot just sit here and starve. We should raid the dwarven villages across the border. They have plenty of food. The East always has enough."
"That would lead to war, Ari!" another elf shot back, his voice rising in anger. "The dwarves will retaliate with force. They'll burn everything, and we'll lose far more than we gain."
A third elf, his face gaunt and weary, spoke with more caution. "My friends, we can't afford to make enemies. We should trade with Whitemoor. The merchants there have grain, vegetables—everything we need."
"But Whitemoor will raise the price to an unbearable height once they learn the truth," a woman with silver-streaked hair interjected, her eyes dark with frustration. "Once they hear that Davra's crops have failed, they'll exploit us. They'll see desperation and charge whatever they want."
"What choice do we have? Lena, we won't survive without their help this time," said another. "The plague has claimed everything. The people are starving, and we can't even feed them. We need help, no matter the cost."
An older elf, long-bearded and leaning heavily on his staff, sighed deeply, his eyes shadowed with worry. "We could go to the Empire, ask for aid. Their coffers are vast, and they have the resources to help us through this."
A sharp laugh came from one of the younger elves. "The Empire? Do you truly believe they'll help? The Empire's nobles care more for their coin than they do for us. If we approach them, they'll see it as an opportunity to exploit us further. They'll let us starve just to line their pockets."
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the truth settling heavily on everyone's shoulders. They knew it too well—the Empire, the nobles, the endless corruption. The system that claimed to protect them had long since forgotten about the smaller villages.
Fujin, the eldest of them all, remained unmoved at the head of the table, his face a mask of age and experience. He had listened to every word, but he had yet to speak. The room turned to him, seeking his wisdom, his decision.
Finally, his deep voice rumbled through the air. "You argue like children. None of your solutions will save us. There is only one way."
One of the younger council members spoke with an edge of impatience. "And what is that, Fujin? We don't have time for more cryptic riddles. The people are starving!"
Fujin's gaze hardened. "You speak of raiding, of trading, of begging for scraps from the corrupt. But you forget something important—there are powers at work here. Forces beyond our understanding."
His eyes flicked to the back of the room where Isgram stood quietly, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"I suggest we speak with our allies," Fujin continued, his voice steady but heavy with meaning. "You have all heard rumors of strange things, dark powers stirring in the forests.
I already closed a trade deal for food last month with them, and today is the day they should return. I have already anticipated this plague."
The members of the council heard of the new deal he made, but they kept quiet on the matter after they heard he killed one of the merchants who refused to work with the village on the matter.
"Chief Fujin, do you truly trust those magistos?"
Magistos. The name the chosen ones received in the books of the 4 empires, and even in the late demonic empire, they were feared from childhood.
The word itself raised the fear of wars, famine, death, and suffering.
They all knew the impact such powerful mages had on this world.
"I trust food. And power. If they got both, they're welcome here."
The council started to murmur among themselves, but some nodded in agreement.
Then, the door to the hall opened.
The room went quiet, all eyes turning to the dwarf who stepped into the sunlight-filled room.