The next morning, under the reluctant farewells of the villagers, Irene continued her journey toward the territory.
Two days later, Irene finally set foot on the land of her old home.
The Raven Territory in her memory was an unfading painting in Irene’s heart.
It should have been lush with green grass stretching to the horizon, embraced by gently rolling hills.
The sunlight was always generous, gilding everything in warm gold; the sky was a pure, freshly-washed blue, and fluffy clouds drifted by at leisure.
Between the furrows, plump ears of wheat rolled like golden waves, whispering in the breeze. The air was filled with the rich fragrance of damp earth and ripened grain—the very scent of life itself, the deepest imprint of home.
She still remembered, sitting on the grass, gazing at the golden sea of wheat, making a promise for the future together with Serena—
She remembered Serena had said, “When I grow up, I’ll marry Irene as my bride!”
But—
She hurriedly shook her head, forcibly erasing Serena’s figure from her mind.
‘Hmph, why do I keep thinking of Serena? I need to forget that heartless woman if I want to start my new life!’
However, when the carriage finally rolled over the weathered boundary marker of the family territory, Irene pushed open the window, and a gust of wind laden with grit—so dry it could strike sparks—rushed in violently.
The gentle and bountiful sea of green she had expected did not appear.
What unfolded before her eyes was a barren wasteland that made her heart pound.
The earth seemed to have been cruelly crushed and scorched by a giant hand.
Dense cracks ran across the land like the parched wounds on a dying beast, hideously crawling over every inch of ground within sight.
Dead trees, twisted like skeletons, thrust their jagged branches desperately toward the leaden, lifeless sky.
There was not a trace of crops in the once fertile fields, only dust swirling in the wind, letting out faint, desolate whimpers.
The riverbeds lay bare, with only pallid stones and dried mud left behind, like an unhealable scar on the land.
The air was thick with dust and a scorched, lifeless smell that stung the throat.
How could this be the land of eternal spring? It was clearly a scorched wasteland abandoned by the world.
Irene’s fingers gripped the wooden window frame tightly, her knuckles turning white.
She opened her mouth, but her throat felt stuffed with burning sand from the dry air. The cheerful words she had prepared to introduce her homeland to Helga and Rita froze and shattered, clogging her chest and weighing her down until she could barely breathe.
A cold chill raced up her spine.
No, this isn’t right?! No matter how you look at it, it’s all wrong!
“Th-this… is this the Raven Territory?” Rita’s voice trembled.
“Irene, did we take the wrong road? This place looks just like the desert of the ‘Golden Kingdom’…”
Helga had just spoken when she noticed the change in Irene’s expression, realized she had misspoken, and obediently closed her mouth.
As for Leila and Ansel, both were originally from the Raven Territory, and the shock on their faces was no less than Irene’s.
“What on earth happened?! How did it become like this? Am I dreaming? Where’s the green grass? The beautiful fields? The golden sea of wheat?”
Irene’s emotions spiraled out of control, her voice questioning the scene before her again and again.
At that moment, a heavy, rhythmic creaking halted Irene’s outburst. She turned her face—
In her line of sight, a heavy wagon pulled by a few bony nags was staggering along a fork leading toward the barren mountains in the distance.
The wagon was piled high with black, jagged ore, forming a small mountain.
The wheels sank deeply into the loose sand, each turn a struggle.
A few ragged, dust-covered figures trudged behind the wagon, their backs bent under invisible burdens, each step raising a small cloud of dusty yellow.
Irene’s gaze locked onto the miners and their heavy ore, suspicion churning in her heart.
Her eyes then fell on the merchant driving the wagon.
He was wrapped in a thick, ash-covered cloak, his hat brim pulled low to reveal only a rough chin and tightly pressed lips.
As he snapped his whip and shouted at the nags, an extremely short, harsh syllable slipped from his mouth, carrying a tone Irene had never heard in the Kingdom.
‘No, this guy isn’t from the Kingdom!!’
Irene turned to her two most skilled companions in covert action: “Leila, Clarette.”
Her voice was barely audible, her gaze following the dust trail of the ore wagon. “Follow that merchant. Find out where he settles and who he contacts. Remember, act as the situation demands—safety first.”
“Yes, my lady!”
Leila tugged Clarette along, and the two slipped into stealth. In the blink of an eye, they vanished from sight like leaves swept away by the wind.
“Ansel.” Irene’s voice was low and commanding, her eyes still fixed on the distant ore merchant. “Go ask in the village what happened here. Be careful, don’t reveal your identity.”
The loyal knight immediately understood his lady’s intent.
He dismounted neatly, shedding the stiffness of a noble’s bearing, and strode steadily and naturally toward an elderly villager resting against a dead tree by the roadside.
The knight bent slightly, his face showing just the right amount of confusion and sympathy for a passing traveler, and began to speak in a low voice.
Irene withdrew her gaze, took a deep breath of the scorching, arid air, and forced herself to calm down.
She had to see with her own eyes, hear with her own ears, just what kind of suffering the land that raised her was enduring.
Knight Ansel soon returned, his expression as grave as iron.
“My lady,” he said quietly, “that old man said this land… has suffered drought for half a year. The sky has been so stingy, not a drop of rain has fallen. All the rivers and streams have dried up, the wells are empty… The seeds sown last year were baked to ash in the ground before they could sprout. Many didn’t make it through.”
…Irene’s heart sank suddenly, as if gripped hard by an invisible hand. That half year seemed to become a burning brand, searing her soul.
She couldn’t imagine how, in these months, the honest faces she knew—those who had waved her farewell—struggled, despaired, and finally faded away in the abyss of thirst and hunger.
But thinking deeper, Irene sensed something odd. The Raven Territory’s main irrigation came from a branch of the Obra River, which originated within the Empire. With a river that size, could even its bed dry up entirely in a drought?
Something was off!
“And then?” Irene pressed.
“Two months ago,” Ansel continued, his tone tinged with complexity, “Acting Lord Vincent discovered iron ore in Blackstone Mountain to the northwest. He ordered all able villagers to work the mines, trading the ore for food and necessities… That’s the only way those left have barely survived.”
He paused, then added, “When the old man mentioned Lord Vincent, he was grateful—said it was all thanks to him that they found this way to survive.”
Vincent… her cousin…
He was a member of the Raven Marquis’s collateral branch, a little older than Irene.
Irene mulled over the name, her gaze drifting toward the lifeless, iron-rich mountains.
Trading ore for lives? That logic might hold in desperation, but why did the merchant’s suspicious accent linger in her mind like a ghost?
Just then, urgent footsteps sounded from the road leading to the lord’s manor, raising a cloud of dust.
A group of people moved quickly through the haze, led by a man riding a tall but equally dull-coated steed, racing toward the convoy.
The rider grew clearer.
Irene’s pupils contracted slightly—it was her cousin, a collateral member of the Raven Family, who had acted as lord since she and her mother left: Vincent Raven.
He had changed a lot in the years since they’d last met.
He wore a well-fitted but clearly not top-quality dark riding outfit, looked travel-worn, his face visibly tired, cheeks slightly sunken, dark shadows under his eyes, and even some early gray at his temples.
Yet, when he reined in his horse and saw Irene’s convoy, all that weariness and worry seemed to vanish in an instant, replaced by overwhelming joy and relief.
“Irene! You’re finally back! The knights who went ahead told me you wanted to go to Eusebius City on an adventure—you had me worried sick!”
Vincent’s voice was loud, full of emotion, even quivering a little with excitement.