In the mountains of Fraoshieval:

  Nenda walked along a dirt path winding its way up a stooping mountain, the pieces of gravel scattered through the dirt rolling underneath her feet.

  Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade, and she watched the mountain both above and below for any unwanted presence.

  A squirrel chittered at her angrily as she passed underneath a tree's twisted boughs, the squirrel’s beady eyes watching her as she walked. An intrusion like hers was rare. This was no longer a path walked often, and the forest had begun to reclaim what had, before man had subdued it, once been its own.

  She supposed that it should have been strange that her muscles did not burn, her lungs did not cry out for air, and her feet did not ache, but for a reason unknown to her, her mind accepted these things without pause. She was simply not subject to these experiences.

  Looking upward once more, she saw the hint of a village, an archway, old and weathered, towering over the path above.

  She continued up the path, approaching the archway. Its paint was faded and peeling from lack of upkeep, and moss grew up its side.

  Nenda walked underneath the arch, hand brushing the painted wood as she moved.

  In the distance, she saw village homes, though their inhabitants were strangely absent.

  As she walked into the village, she heard voices further in, and she moved to find the source.

  Once the sound deepened, she came across a group of people crowded together.

  She pushed through until she found a spot with a clear view, and saw a man in the center of the circle of people, speaking.

  He was telling a story, a tale of hundreds of years before any of these people had been born, a tale of the beginnings of this country’s history.

  “-more than five hundred years ago. Nashi, the original Warlord, Ancestor of Fraoshieval, walked with the Catalysts themselves, even a friend to them.

  “He was beside them as they pushed back the forces that held all of the land in sway. He fought with them against the destructive enemy that every villager knew and cursed. Once they were destroyed, he journeyed with the Catalysts as one of the chosen 5 to accompany them to the Heart of the World in their mission.

  “When the Catalysts left the world to seal up the Devastation, Ancestor Nashi journeyed to the Seat of Kings, and picked up the broken pieces of our nations.”

  He paused a moment, before resuming.

  “The Ancestor stumbled across a collection of books, a library from a long-forgotten nation. The books were detailed, describing every facet of society and life in those times. He found that the kingdom he read of in those books was a better kingdom, more fair, more powerful, and yet more advanced that what had strangled the lands for generations.

  “So he adopted their ways, and forged a new kingdom from the ashen ruins left behind; The Kingdom of Fraoshieval. And so it is, that every five years, we recant the history of our founding, so that we may never forget our history, and the great people that have brought us to prominence.”

  The people gathered applauded, and the storyteller bowed, the red hem of his robe sweeping against the ground.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The storyteller walked out of the ring of people, and the gathered people began to leave, speaking amongst themselves, and moving to their own matters around the village.

  A few townspeople looked curiously at Nenda, but none of them did anything further, until a man, in a blue robe with black stitching forming letters along the hem, took a closer look, and exclaimed, “You’re hurt! Oyane!” He called, and a woman stepped out of the crowd, looking closely at Nenda.

  “Yes, Shien? What is it?” The woman said, before she, too, noticed the wound. The two pushed and pulled Nenda over to a small house. She let them carry her away, bemused, though she could have at any point easily stopped them.

  They pulled her into the house, and Shien stepped into another room.

  Oyane moved aside Nenda’s sleeve, looking at the wound given by the Haunt’s knife.

  It was already better than it had been when she first received the wound, but it still severely impeded her.

  Fortunately, it was her non-dominant hand, so she had still been able to defend herself earlier.

  Shien approached, a bandage held in his hands, along with a healing paste.

  He handed the items to Oyane, and she took the paste, using a light coating on Nenda’s wound.

  She took the bandage, and carefully wrapped it around the wound.

  “What happened to you?” Oyana asked. “That’s a knife wound, and not a clean cut, either.”

  “Accident.” Nenda said. “Why are you helping me? I’m a stranger.”

  “That’s why we do this work.” Shien said. “We just like to help people.”

  “So what kind of accident does this to you?” Oyane asked. “How do you stab your own shoulder?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Nenda said, ending the discussion. “I don’t like feeling in debt to someone. What can I do to even the scales?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You don’t owe us anything.” Shien said.

  “I’d still rather not leave-” Nenda cut off as she heard a commotion outside.

  She pulled open the door, and looked outside. At a pole with a bell at the top, a man in a black robe with red accents was pulling a rope, ringing the bell repeatedly to get the attention of the village.

  Nenda stepped outside, and the two healers rushed to stop her, but halted once they saw the man standing there.

  The other townspeople began to gather again in the center, summoned by the newcomer.

  Once the general majority of the inhabitants had arrived, the man let go of the rope, and withdrew a rolled paper from a bag.

  Unrolling it, he began to read.

  “This is a national degree directly issued from the Lord Steward. This country, started in the following week, is enforcing quotas on every farming town. We expect to acquire a suitable amount of harvest from each town, comparable to the size and quality of the farming land that they have. This will be enforced for an undetermined amount of time, and there are to be no exceptions. The Lord Steward extends his gratitude for your understanding.” He said, then rolled up the scroll, put it away, and turned to leave.

  The townspeople stared in silence at the man as he walked away, not one of them moving. Nenda watched the man leave, and turned to the healers. “What happened? Why is everyone so quiet?”

  “That was a royal announcer.” Shien stated emotionlessly. “Some of our harvest is going to be confiscated.”

  “Why is that so important?” Nenda asked.

  “Normally, it would just be extra work, but we had a bandit raid on our stores a month ago.” Oyane said. “We were barely going to scrape through the winter. Now…”

  “You’ll starve.”

  “Yes.” Shien said.

  The people began to drift off, the camaraderie from earlier absent.

  Nenda stayed where she was, thinking.

  “These bandits… are they often in this area?” She asked.

  Oyane answered. “Yes. In fact, they lurk around here nearly all of the time. That is why visitors are rare. We asked for protection from the governor of this area, but the kingdom is preparing for war… his resources are being used, and he doesn’t have anything to spare on a little farming village.”

  Nenda thought again, before an idea appeared to her.

  “Where exactly do these bandits hide?” She asked.

  “In the Shrouded Valley,” Shien said, before he caught himself. “But that’s suicide! You can’t go. We wouldn’t let you even if you were healed!”

  Nenda agreed, resolving to keep her idea to herself.

  The healers visibly relaxed at her nod, and Shien patted Nenda’s healthy shoulder. “Don’t worry about us.”

  Oyane looked closely at Nenda. “How old are you, by the way? You aren’t young enough to need your parents nearby, but you don’t look as if you are very old, either.”

  “I don’t know.” Nenda replied truthfully.

  “You don’t know your age?” Oyane asked.

  “I have no idea what my age could be.” Nenda replied.

  “I… see.” Oyane said, taken aback.

  “You should rest.” Shien said. “Wounds like that need time to heal.”

  “If you need somewhere to rest,” Oyane said, “you can stay at our home. It is open to you.”

  Nenda considered, then nodded.

  The healers smiled, then waited for further conversation, standing there for a moment, until a man approached, holding a hurt wrist in his other hand.

  The healers led the man into their home, scolding him over being careless, and Nenda thought to herself again.

  Hmm… the Shrouded Valley. That’s the source of all of their problems, and perhaps even the source of their salvation.

  She smiled. I believe I have found my way of paying back the debt.