Chapter 8: The Path of Resistance

The biting scent of cheap Elrac whiskey and thick tobacco smoke were my only true companions tonight. I sat in the dimmest corner of the Roaring Boar, a rundown tavern in the forest's outskirts—not far from my land… No, my former land. The air was thick with the murmur of conversations, but all I could hear was the judge's gavel striking down and the mocking laughter of those damned aristocrats.

The sting of my loss in court still sat like a thorn in my chest. But where once there had been despair, a slow-burning fury had taken root. If the law served only the rich and powerful—if justice was nothing more than a pretty lie—then I would have to find another way.

I let my gaze drift across the tavern, taking in the weary faces of villagers I had known all my life. Faces that had once greeted my parents with warm smiles now bore only lines of worry and exhaustion. I wasn't the only one suffering under Lord Thorn's rule. Higher taxes bled them dry. Petty new regulations catered to merchants in the capital, crushing the small folk. And then there were the hushed whispers of "progress" creeping closer to their farmland, threatening to swallow it whole. I had been listening for a long time.

My eyes landed on Old Borin, the village blacksmith, nursing a tankard of ale at the bar. He had been my father's friend. I pushed myself up and walked toward him.

"Old Borin," I greeted.

His cloudy eyes squinted at me before recognition dawned. "Caelen," he rasped. "Been a while, lad… Heard about your land. I'm sorry."

"Thanks, Borin." I took the seat beside him. "But this isn't just about my land. You know what's happening to our village. Ever since that bastard Thorn took power."

Borin exhaled heavily, a plume of smoke curling from his lips. "What would I know? I'm just an old blacksmith." His voice was casual, but his eyes—clouded as they were—betrayed him. He knew more than he let on.

I leaned in, lowering my voice. "Are we really going to just let this happen? Let them trample us, steal from us, take everything we have?"

Borin's gaze sharpened, wary. "Watch your tongue, lad. If the wrong ears hear you talking like that, it won't end well." He glanced around, his grip tightening on his mug.

"End well?" I let out a bitter chuckle. "Are we not already at the end? They took my land right in front of me. They tax us into starvation. And now they're coming for our fields—our forest! If we don't act, we'll lose everything."

Silence stretched between us. Borin stared down at his shaking hands wrapped around his drink.

"And what would you have us do?" he finally muttered. "We're just simple folk. How do we fight against the Prime Minister's power?"

I met his gaze, unwavering. "We have each other. If we stand together, our voices become louder. If we refuse to kneel, they can't break us so easily. I'm not saying we pick up swords and march into battle—but we must show them we won't be crushed. We must protect what is ours."

Borin studied me, his hesitation plain. But beneath it, I saw something else—a flicker of something long buried. Frustration. Resentment. A smoldering ember beneath the weight of years spent enduring injustice.

"…It's too dangerous," he murmured. "You don't know how ruthless they are."

"I do," I said, my voice steady despite the fear coiling deep in my gut. "But doing nothing is just as dangerous. It means losing everything without even trying to fight." I held his gaze. "I'm starting tonight. Talking to everyone I trust. If you believe in this… pass the word. Only to those you're sure of."

Borin was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, he took a deep drink, set down his tankard, and gave a small, reluctant nod. "I'll… see what I can do. But be careful, Caelen. These men—these lords—they are crueler than you think."

"I know." I nodded, rising from my seat. "Thank you, Borin."

As I stepped away, I felt something stir within me. This was no longer just about my family's loss. This was about all of us. About every soul crushed beneath the heel of those in power.

This was only the first step—one small ripple in what had to become a storm. The road ahead would be steep, tangled with thorns of fear and uncertainty. People would hesitate, afraid to rise.

But the seed of resistance had been sown.

I pushed open the tavern door, stepping into the cool night air. The sky loomed dark and heavy, yet in my heart, I saw the first glimmers of light. A fragile, flickering hope that we could take back what was stolen—no matter the cost.