There were signs.
Obvious signs. Signs so loud and shiny that even a newborn hatchling with half-shut eyes could see them.
A farm paved in stone. Not dirt. Not grass. Stone. Smooth, polished, neatly lined, stretching under his little avatar's feet like a royal courtyard.
Rows upon rows of crops, not struggling to live like the pitiful weeds in his own farm, but thriving, fat, and gleaming with sparkles that practically sang songs of prosperity.
Barns and coops lined the edges, not the rickety, hollow kind, but massive, upgraded structures with flower boxes in the windows and lanterns glowing like little stars at night.
Animals—fat, glossy, smug animals—strutted around in neat pens, each with custom little houses that looked better than Orien's farmhouse.
And fruit trees. Not a tree. Not two. A forest. A perfectly spaced, neatly pruned orchard where every branch felt like it was sagging heavy with fruit.
Left. Riches.
Right. Riches.
