“All yours, Sherry!” I signalled as I barged the figure into the path of Sherry’s waiting blade.

  The scarecrow made a metallic hiss as it fell, cleaved clean down the middle. A final puff of straw burst from its gut like an angry exhale. For a moment, there was only silence—punctuated by Rumiel’s shrill cheer. “Good work!”

  A chime rang in my head, followed by a flood of numbers and sparkles.

  Level Up!

  Barrett – Level 2 | Class: Rookie

  HP: 120

  Strength: 6 (+1)

  Defense: 10

  Magic: 2

  Dexterity: 6

  Intellect: 6

  Speed: 7

  Meryl leaned on his sword, panting. “Finally, some progress.”

  “The best part is we're not running away anymore,” Sherry said, almost a tinge of relief in her voice. “These things just appear out of nowhere, so we gotta keep moving. Did you see that one leaking mold?”

  “It's not mold,” Rumiel announced, inspecting the downed scarecrow with morbid fascination. “Someone has blighted these lands, causing things to fester, and as we've all seen animate and attack.”

  She brushed her fingers across the slashed burlap torso of the fallen scarecrow. “This isn't mold—it’s magical—like a spell gone sour. But that's just a guess.”

  Orren pointed up the road. “You can play detectives later. We’re almost there.”

  We followed his gesture and crested the final hill.

  Alerensia stretched below us like a forgotten painting. The sun bathed the village in warm light, but it couldn’t hide its dilapidation. A crumbling windmill turned just enough to creak mournfully. Half the houses were boarded shut, their rooftops sunken like broken ribs. Thin livestock meandered between fences that sagged with defeat.

  When we entered the town, people had… hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, movements as slow as prayers whispered with no expectation of an answer.

  No one waved. No one smiled.

  Children peeked from behind doorways, not in curiosity, but caution.

  I stopped beside Rumiel, my voice quiet. “Could’ve granted some more wishes, if you ask me.”

  Without missing a beat, she elbowed me in the ribs making my interface flicker. “You know that's not how it works. There's a process. You can't order what you want like it's a fast food restaurant,” she sneered, before elbowing me again.

  Orren kept his head down as we passed the village square. “Hey, I don't know what you're rattling on about, but keep a low profile, will ya? They have eyes and ears everywhere.”

  We followed him through a narrow alley between two collapsing homes, careful not to kick loose the stone tiles underfoot. As we ducked beneath a sagging beam, Orren raised a hand to stop us.

  “Wait,” he whispered.

  Ahead, in the town center, a small crowd had gathered.

  A man knelt on the ground, arms bound behind his back with glowing manacles. His cheeks were streaked with dust and sweat, his tunic torn and stained red—though whether it was from jam or blood wasn’t immediately clear.

  Standing over him were two figures dressed in stark contrast to the withered surroundings. A man wore a porcelain mask molded into a permanent, polite smile. Blue and gold robes draped beneath his armor—immaculate, ceremonial, and clearly meant to impress. The fabric shimmered faintly in the sunlight, the gold trim catching the light with every movement. Even now, with the man at his feet, he stood with hands clasped behind his back—composed, almost cordial.

  Alzred Varnum – Level 5

  Class: Chaliceguard Captain

  Beside him, Mage Selyra Vaunt was elegance carved from ice. Her long robe mirrored the Captain’s palette—deep navy trimmed with radiant gold—but hers was tighter, more severe in cut. Etched sigils lined the sleeves like silent warnings. A lacquered scroll case hung from her hip, and her pale fingers were poised mid-gesture as a red sigil flared to life beneath her palm.

  Selyra Vaunt – Level 30

  Class: Chaliceguard Blightmage

  “Strawberry wine,” she announced, her voice smooth and clear, but utterly without warmth. “Fermented intent.”

  The bound man protested weakly. “It was just jam! It was just left out for a while—please—”

  “Negligence is corruption,” Captain Alzred replied, not unkindly. “And corruption must be excised.”

  With a flick of her hand, Selyra completed the spell. The glass jar shivered, and then crumbled into a pile of rust-colored dust. Even the scent of fruit disappeared, replaced by the acrid tang of scorched metal.

  “There,” she said. “Purified.”

  Around them, the villagers looked on in rigid silence. One woman pressed her hands over her child’s eyes. Another man clutched his cap to his chest and mouthed something that might’ve been a prayer.

  The detained man was dragged to his feet by two lesser guards in matching blue cloaks, the gold thread at their shoulders glinting like shackles in the sunlight.

  “I trust this will serve as a reminder,” Alzred said as he turned to the crowd. “Temptation brews in the shadows. The Light sees all. The Light forgives only what repents.”

  He bowed, precisely and without emotion, and turned toward the hill where a large stone manor loomed over the village like a watching eye. Selyra followed, not sparing a single glance back.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Guys, he’s only level five. We can take him three on one,” Meryl whispered, resting a palm on the hilt of his sword.

  “And then get vaporized by that level thirty, right?” Sherry muttered, clearly fed up. “Did you see what she just did? Her hands were glowing, and that’s never a good sign.”

  I put my body between them. “There’s no reason to start a fight here. We don’t even know what’s going on.”

  We watched in silence as they continued up the hill, and the town center began to empty out. Orren exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.

  “They’ll find any excuse to cause trouble,” he sighed. “Expired jam, rotten apples, a bowl of porridge left to sit. It’s all about the possibility.”

  Meryl let out a bitter laugh. “Possibility? That wasn’t a crime, that was breakfast. What next, arrest a kid for sneezing too close to a grape?”

  Sherry crossed her arms. “It’s not about the jam. It’s control. Fear. Keep people scared enough and they’ll police themselves.”

  Rumiel scrunched her nose. “That was just spiteful sorcery.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Also, if I’d known people could be arrested for making fruit smell funny, I’d have filled out a few more wish forms for air fresheners.”

  I glanced back at the scorched mark where the jar had been destroyed. “So even survival’s illegal here.”

  Orren nodded grimly. “Anything that could be turned, twisted, fermented… doesn’t matter if it actually is or not. If they even suspect it, they act. And once they act, there’s no going back.”

  Sherry kicked a loose stone. “How do people live like this?”

  “They don’t,” Orren said. “Follow me.”

  We followed him around the back of the town, skirting the edge of what remained of his family’s farmland. The soil was cracked, an unnatural gray cutting through the black earth like old scabs. What few barley stalks remained were twisted, bent, and crumbling to the touch. Some had blackened tips, like they'd been seared by lightning.

  In the center of the field, a perfect ring of scorched earth stained the ground. Not wide, maybe ten feet across, but the edges were singed so cleanly it looked like someone had taken a blade of flame and carved it into the soil

  “This is where she hit it,” Orren said. “Called it a cleansing. Same word every time. She does it from the road. Doesn’t even look.”

  Rumiel crouched beside the ring and touched the earth gingerly. Her face turned serious, lips pursed.

  “I still feel the residue. Definitely holy magic, but it’s been… corrupted,” she said. “It’s like someone dipped holy water in vinegar and decided that was close enough.”

  “The Holy Prohibition began long before I was born,” Orren said as we followed him past the edge of the village, his voice low and bitter. “Back then, Alerensia was famous for its barley. Golden fields that rolled like waves, brewers from all over Distilly would come to buy the grain, taste the water, trade stories at the taverns. We used to say the soil here had spirit in it. Well, that’s what my grandfather used to say.”

  He stopped beside a collapsed fence, resting a hand on one of the rotting posts. Beyond it lay a field of nothing—cracked earth stretched out like broken pottery, and twisted roots poked through like bones under skin.

  “They’re sterilizing the land,” he said again. “On purpose. With those damn purification spells. Nothing grows here now. Not barley, not potatoes, not even weeds. You ever seen ground reject weeds? It’s not just dead—it’s angry.”

  Orren didn’t say another word as he led us down the winding path behind the fields, past more of the withered countryside. Even the wind felt brittle here—like it could snap if it blew too hard. We finally reached the edge of a sloping hill where an old farmhouse sat nestled between two dead trees. The structure leaned slightly to one side, the wood sun-bleached and peeling, but it still held itself together with the quiet dignity of a place that refused to give up.

  “This is us,” Orren muttered, pushing open the crooked gate. “Or what’s left of us.”

  Inside, the air smelled like dust and dried herbs. The floor creaked beneath our boots. There were no lights, just slats of sunlight slipping in through the half-shuttered windows, painting golden lines across the worn wooden floor.

  “Grandpa!” Orren called, setting his pack down. “We’ve got company.”

  A moment later, a figure emerged from the back room, tall and thin as a rake. His hair was silver and wild, beard untamed, but his eyes were sharp—too sharp for someone who should’ve been resting. He looked at each of us with a stare that sized, measured, and filed us all away in half a second.

  “Well,” he said at last, voice rasping like gravel underfoot, “Orren finally brought home some misfits. Thought I heard shouting earlier—was that scarecrows again, or did the Chaliceguard do one of their signature inspections again?”

  “Both, probably,” Rumiel offered, quickly hiding her halo.

  Orren motioned for us to sit at a makeshift table in the kitchen. The chairs didn’t match. One had a broken leg patched with rope. Another had a cushion so thin it was probably just decorative sadness.

  “I’ll heat something up,” Orren offered.

  “Don’t bother,” Sorren said, already pulling a clay pot from the cupboard. “We’ve got stew leftover from yesterday—if you can still call it that. Don’t worry. Nothing in it ferments.”

  “I know it’s sudden, but your grandson told us you knew about life before the Holy Prohibition. Can you tell us more?” I asked.

  “I remember when Alerensia sang,” he said, eyes half-lidded with memory. “Not literally, of course. But it felt like it. Wind through the barley, clink of glasses, bubbling from the casks… Back then, we brewed for joy, not survival. That was the spirit. That’s what they stole from us.”

  “Fifty years ago,” Sherry said. “That’s when the Prohibition started, right?”

  Sorren nodded. “I was a brewmaster. Helped run one of the oldest breweries in the region. They called our beer ‘sunlight in a bottle.’ And now? You can be executed for having grapes that smile too long.”

  He chuckled, but it was a dry, rasping sound—like dust stirred in an empty cask. His eyes, though—those sharp, amber eyes—held no humor. Only fire.

  He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. The flickering lantern light caught the wrinkles around his eyes, deep and weathered like carved bark.

  “Well,” he added, “I say to hell with ‘em.”

  The words dropped like a stone into still water. For a moment, no one said anything.

  Sherry raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous kind of talk.”

  “Good,” Sorren said. “Means it still matters.”

  Rumiel blinked, then squinted as if trying to sense something more than just a statement. “You’re not just bitter. You’re planning something.”

  Sorren’s smile widened—foxlike, hungry. “Damn right, I am.”

  He stood up with a grunt, pushing his chair back. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots as he stepped over to the wall and pulled aside a faded tapestry, revealing a rack of wooden brewing instruments. Everything was aged, oiled, and lovingly preserved—mallets, mash paddles, copper strainers. Each piece looked like it had a history.

  “I’m going to make Alerensian Beer again,” he said, reverent now. “Not the watery swill the Chaliceguard thinks people sneak in tin cups. The real thing. The kind that makes a man remember who he is.”

  Meryl crossed his arms. “You’ve got the gear. What about the ingredients? The land’s gone sterile.”

  “I have the tools and now I have the help,” Sorren said, glancing at us with a grin.

  Then he turned to face us fully with his expression hardened.

  “All that’s missing is the place. But I know exactly where to go.”

  Sherry frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Sorren didn’t answer right away. Instead, he glanced toward the windows, then the door, as if expecting ears to be pressed against the wood. His shoulders tensed, and for a moment, the only sound was the creak of the wooden floorboards and the low crackle of the hearth.

  “A leyline.”