Chapter 207: Before the Storm
The morning light was soft in those days. It spilled over the rolling hills and green fields like honey, warm and golden, kissing the land awake.
Right now, the world felt quiet to Igaris. No clash of armies, no ringing of blades, no scent of blood in the wind. Only the rustle of crops swaying under the gentle breeze and the faint clucking of hens from the coop by the fence.
He awoke to the creak of the old wooden door, sunlight slipping through its gaps. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, drifting from the small kitchen. His mother’s voice followed soon after, warm and clear.
"Igaris, get up. The sun is already climbing. The fields will not tend themselves."
He stretched, groaning slightly as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His bed was simple, a straw mattress with a quilt patched in different colors. The walls of his room were bare except for a few shelves holding small wooden carvings he had made as a boy, the kind of toys a farmer’s son would treasure.
Stepping outside, the cool air kissed his skin. Their home sat on the edge of the farmlands, a small thatched-roof cottage surrounded by tilled soil and grazing sheep. His father was already at work, leaning on the handle of a hoe, scanning the rows of crops with a careful eye.
"You’re late," his father said without looking up, though there was no anger in his tone. His voice carried the firmness of a man who had worked the land his whole life. "The wheat won’t grow any faster if you sleep in."
Igaris smiled faintly. "I know, Father. I’ll make up for it."
He took his place beside him, gripping another hoe and stepping into the earth. The soil here was rich, dark, and smelled of life. With each swing, the earth broke apart, and the weeds were pulled out by their roots. It was not glorious work, but there was something grounding about it. Each day began with the rising sun, the turning of the soil, the planting of seeds, and ended with the satisfaction of seeing neat rows ready for the coming rains.
At noon, his mother would bring lunch to the fields, her basket filled with bread, cheese, and a small flask of fresh milk. They would sit together on the edge of the fence, speaking of simple things. The weather. The price of seed at the village market. Whether the fox that had been prowling at night would strike the chicken coop again.
Igaris was just a young boy now, his hands calloused from labor, but his eyes still bright with curiosity. Sometimes, he would sneak away after work to sit beneath the old willow tree by the stream. Its branches hung low, brushing the water’s surface, and in its shade he would daydream of worlds beyond the horizon. He would toss pebbles into the current, wondering where the water went, wondering if there was more to life than this cycle of planting and harvest.
His father often caught him drifting into thought. "You dream too much," he would say, not unkindly. "A farmer’s life is steady. We till, we sow, we reap. That is enough."
And for a time, Igaris believed him.
The seasons passed in their steady rhythm. Spring brought the sowing, summer the tending, autumn the harvest, and winter the long quiet where the fields slept under frost. Winter evenings were his favorite. The family would sit by the hearth, the fire crackling while his mother mended clothes and his father carved wooden tools. Igaris would sometimes read from a worn book, the words sparking visions of distant lands and ancient heroes. His mother would listen with a soft smile, though she never spoke of the outside world. His father, on the other hand, would shake his head. "Stories are stories, boy. Do not let them fool you. The soil under your feet is more real than all the castles in those pages."
But there were moments that hinted at something more. Once, while repairing the fence, Igaris spotted a band of travelers passing along the road. They carried strange weapons and spoke in accents he had never heard. Their clothes were bright, their laughter loud, and for a moment he felt something stir inside him.
A longing, faint but sharp, as if a voice whispered that he was living a false life.
Still, he returned to his work. The sheep needed tending, the crops needed watering, and the days blurred into one another in their quiet, familiar way.
One summer, there was a drought. The rains did not come, and the soil cracked under the heat. His father worked harder than ever, his skin burning under the sun, but no matter how much they toiled, the crops withered. Igaris watched the worry deepen in his parents’ faces. They spoke in hushed voices at night, counting their stores of grain and wondering if they would have enough to last the winter.
It was then that Igaris began to push himself harder. He woke earlier, stayed in the fields until the moon rose, and learned how to find water deep in the earth by following the signs his father had once shown him. His hands bled from the labor, but he did not stop. In the end, they managed to save enough of the crop to survive the winter. His father clapped a hand on his shoulder that day and said simply, "Good work, son." For Igaris, it was worth more than gold.
In those years, love was quiet but strong. His mother would hum softly as she cooked, her voice blending with the scent of stew simmering in the pot. His father, though stern, would share a rare smile when the work was done and the animals were fed. They were not wealthy, but they had enough, and they had each other.
On festival days, they would walk to the village together, carrying baskets of produce to sell at the market. The streets would be filled with laughter, music, and the smell of roasted meat. Igaris enjoyed those days, not for the noise, but for the chance to watch people from all walks of life. Merchants with strange trinkets. Hunters with trophies slung over their backs. Storytellers who could weave entire worlds with words. He never spoke to them, but their presence lingered in his thoughts long after they left.
Years passed like this. He grew taller, stronger, more skilled in the ways of farming. The rhythm of life was unbroken, yet somewhere deep within him, the quiet yearning remained. He loved his parents, loved the land, but there was a restlessness that the fields could not soothe. Some nights, he would lie awake listening to the wind outside, feeling as though it carried whispers from far-off places, calling him.
He never told his parents about these feelings. To them, he was a dutiful son, content to work the land they had passed down to him. And perhaps, in some ways, he was.
But sometimes the world feels too little for him.
For now, though, he rose with the dawn, worked under the sun, and slept beneath a roof built with his father’s hands. The world beyond could wait. The soil was warm beneath his feet, the crops swayed gently in the wind, and in those moments, the life of Igaris was peaceful, untroubled, and whole.
---
Time passed, he was now at the age of 20.
Igaris stood there barefoot, his boots resting in the mud behind him, the cold dew seeping into the skin of his feet. In front of him, the graves of his parents bore simple wooden markers. He had carved them himself the night before, his hands trembling not from fatigue but from the weight of finality.
The sunlight touched the fresh earth as if it too wished to comfort them.
For years, this land had been his world. A modest village surrounded by fields that stretched to the horizon, dotted with low wooden homes and winding dirt paths. His parents, humble farmers, had raised him to live in harmony with the soil and the seasons. They had taught him the strength of patience, the value of honesty, and the quiet joy of a day’s work well done.
And now, they were gone.
The illness had been swift, almost cruel in its efficiency. No healer came in time, no magical remedy could be found in this small, quiet corner of the world. It had been Igaris who had held their hands as they breathed their last. His father’s grip had been firm even in weakness, his mother’s touch soft despite her pain. Their final words had been simple—«live well, live truly».
Once again, the village felt too small. The fences, the well-worn fields, even the old oak tree where he used to nap under its shade—they all seemed like fragments of a world that no longer belonged to him.
Igaris stood straight, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he took a deep breath.
"This is the last season I’ll till this soil," he whispered. "The next fields I walk will not belong to this village."
That day, the quiet farmer walked out of his home with nothing more than a leather satchel, a thick traveling cloak, and the staff his father had carved for him when he was a boy. The staff had no magic, no runes, no enchantments—only the marks of his father’s careful knife work. Yet somehow, it felt like the most powerful thing he carried.