The morning light didn't improve a damn thing.
I stood at the window, watching my so-called "barony" wake up—if you could call it waking up when most of these people never really slept. The fields were patches of dirt and stubborn weeds, the kind that grew crooked, like even the plants here were too tired to stand straight. The peasants moved like shadows, their ribs pressing against their shirts, their hands twitching at nothing, like they were still trying to grab food that wasn't there.
Only the church looked alive. Its polished stone walls and that stupid golden cross caught the sunlight like it was showing off. Meanwhile, my manor groaned every time the wind hit it, like an old man dying in his sleep.
I dug my fingers into the windowsill. A splinter bit into my palm, but I didn't pull away. The pain was something real, at least.
These people weren't subjects. They were ghosts. This wasn't a barony—it was a grave with a title. And me? I was the corpse they'd stuffed into noble clothes and propped up in the lord's seat.
A laugh scraped out of my throat, ugly and raw. Of course the only thing doing well here was the damn church, fattening itself on these walking skeletons.
I took a slow breath. The air stank of damp rot and piss. Rage wouldn't fix this. I needed to understand.
"MAXWELL!"
My shout sent crows bursting from the church roof, their wings flapping like torn paper. The door flew open before the echo faded.
Maxwell stood there, shoulders tense, eyes flicking to the broken glass still scattered on the floor. "Master Kain?"
"Tell me about this place," I said. "Everything. The land, the people, the church. And if there's magic here, I want to know exactly how it works."
He hesitated. I saw the doubt in his eyes—wondering why I didn't already know. But he was smart enough not to ask.
The Lay of the Land
"To the north," Maxwell began, voice low, "there's the Gutterforge Range. Mountains full of iron, but the dwarves there don't take kindly to visitors. They skin trespassers alive and hang the meat to dry in the caves."
I raised an eyebrow. "Charming."
The South is The Forest of Whispers
The edges offer gifts—sweet fruits, rare herbs, bark that dulls pain. But go deeper, and the trees whisper in voices you know. Some say elves linger there, silver-eyed and fleeting. Fools chase them. Few return. Those who do come back changed hollow, clutching strange treasures, fingers stained with earth, as if they tried to dig their way into the world beneath. It is a scary place Sir Kain. Most of the adventures my weary eyes have seen never return after venturing into that forest.
I glanced out the window. The tree line loomed in the distance, dark even in daylight.
"East is the Williams' land," Maxwell said. "They sell us grain. Or what they call grain. Half of it's sawdust and mold. But they're the only ones who trade with us, so we take it."
"And west?"
Maxwell's throat bobbed. "West is where the mountains meet the forest. The land... twists there. Men who patrol it come back changed. Their shadows move wrong. Sometimes they forget their own names."
I studied him. "You're leaving something out."
Magic exists in this world, but only the rich can practice it lessons cost a fortune, and the materials aren't cheap. The Church offers an alternative, but their "generosity" comes with chains: sign a contract, swear your life to them, and spend the rest of your days chanting hymns to their precious Sun God. From what I've heard, they mold you into whatever they need Paladins, Nuns, Healers, Priests all just obedient little soldiers basking in divine light.
Guess I was never meant to wield magic. Hah. Like I give a damn. What's a fireball next to a tactical warhead? What's a holy barrier against a city turned to glass? If some upstart god or self-righteous zealot thinks they can stand in my way, I'll burn their heaven down around them. And as for the bastard who dragged Kain Kkuvert into this shithole world? Oh, I'll take my time with them.