CHAPTER 16-
The small village slowly awakened beneath the rising sun. The sky was painted with the pale colors of a world not fully awake yet. Birds chirped softly, mingling with the gentle breeze that carried the first breath of day into the village. The air was cool, holding a quiet promise of a long, laborious day ahead.
Kenon had already risen in his narrow, worn-out room. When he opened his eyes, the faint light filtered through the window, casting shimmering dust motes onto the floor. The small room where his bedridden father lay was a silent refuge, worn down by time and pain. The old man's weary and motionless body weighed heavily on Kenon's shoulders—not just physically, but emotionally, anchoring his every morning with a heavy sense of responsibility.
He rose quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of the room. Listening intently, he measured his father's breath—heavy and uneven, a steady reminder of the fragility of life. In this little home, isolated from the outside world, Kenon's existence was carved from sacrifice and quiet endurance.
Like every morning, he shuffled towards the kitchen, the floor creaking beneath his cautious steps. The small stove hissed softly as he lit the fire, and the cold air gradually softened, filled with the scent of warming wood and simmering broth.
Preparing the meal was a ritual. Each chop, each stir, was a small act of care. His father's frail body demanded nourishment that was both gentle and sustaining. Kenon's hands moved with practiced grace, a dance he had learned out of love and necessity. Every plate was a hope he placed on the table—a silent prayer that tonight, his father would have the strength to face another day.
For himself, he packed a small handful of nuts and dried fruits—simple treasures that would help him endure the endless toil awaiting him outside.
After everything was ready, he returned to his father's bedside. Gently placing the food on the table, he whispered softly:
"Father, are you awake? I put your meal here. Eat when you're hungry, okay?"
The old man's pale eyes fluttered open, revealing the kindness and fatigue of many years.
"Thank you, son. Take care of yourself."
Kenon swallowed the lump in his throat. The weight of his father's vulnerability pressed down on him like the heavy dawn. He nodded and stepped out into the awakening village.
Outside, the sun was just cresting the horizon, casting pale gold light over the fields and rooftops. The chill of the early morning filled his lungs as his mind drifted—thoughts of his father's suffering, his own exhaustion, and the uncertain future swirling together.
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Meanwhile, in another part of the village, Tarel's morning was far from peaceful.
"Tarel! Quiet! I'm awake, damn it!"
His voice cracked with frustration as he slammed the door behind him. The walls of his small room were cracked and peeling, the remnants of better days long faded. The only clothes he owned were worn thin, and today he pulled on the most tattered shirt he had—threadbare and stained.
He rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, trying to shake off the fog of sleep and despair. The cracked mirror showed a face etched with fatigue and hardened by hardship.
Breakfast was meager—a few pieces of fruit left over from Aunt Elina's kindness the night before. As he bit into the sweet flesh, his stomach churned with hunger and worry.
He headed to the door, but paused when he spotted the stack of bills and debts waiting just outside. The cold, unforgiving papers mocked him with their stark reality. His shoulders sagged further as he tore open the envelopes, his eyes scanning the harsh numbers and demands.
The weight of poverty pressed down on him like a physical force. With a bitter scowl, he tossed the papers aside, laced up his dusty, mud-streaked shoes, and stepped out into the harsh morning.
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Kenon and Tarel met at the village center, the usual meeting place marked by the ancient church's worn stone walls and the creaky village hall roof. The shacks nearby leaned against each other like weary old friends. Both men carried different burdens, but the unspoken bond of struggle and survival tied them together.
Their walk to the fields stretched long and tiring. The dirt roads twisted through the village, past scattered homes and open fields, leading to the vast lands where they toiled.
Along the way, they greeted other villagers—men and women bent by hard labor but still filled with quiet pride. Tarel's face brightened with each familiar voice; his love for the people of the village was clear in every friendly greeting.
They passed Banly Uncle, a stout man known for his carrying work. Tarel called out cheerfully:
"Hey Banly Uncle, good luck today!"
But Banly's face was clouded with worry, his usual warmth replaced by an unsettling silence. Tarel opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Kenon grabbed his sleeve, pulling him gently away.
"Tarel, they've been here again. I saw the bills at my door this morning. These men are trying to heap more work onto the villagers. Don't upset them any further."
Tarel sighed, his lips twitching into a wry smile.
"Man, you should have told me sooner."
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At the fields, the work was backbreaking and unrelenting. No machines had ever reached this remote village; every furrow turned was by human hands. Calloused fingers gripped rough tools, moving in rhythm with the earth.
As the sun climbed, sweat soaked their clothes and dirt stained their skin. The midday heat was relentless.
They took a short break, sharing what little food they had, when suddenly, horse-drawn carriages appeared at the edge of the field.
Soldiers.
The royal inspectors had arrived.
Men dressed in fine suits stepped down, their polished boots sinking slightly in the soft earth. All workers sprang to their feet, eyes wary.
Ziptou Uncle, the oldest and most respected of the villagers, greeted the officials. Their faces were stern, unreadable.
The lead inspector's voice cut through the air sharply.
"What are you doing here?"
Ziptou replied respectfully.
"We have finished half our work and were taking a brief rest."
The officer's brow furrowed in displeasure.
"Are you defying the king's orders? I don't want to hear your cursed names."
Tarel's voice broke through the tension.
"Uncle Ziptou, why stay silent? The previous inspectors allowed us to rest."
The officer laughed mockingly.
"Who do you think you are? Be thankful you still breathe under the king's rule! Damn peasants."
Tarel opened his mouth to answer but was abruptly struck down, kicked as he fell.
Kenon's blood boiled; a storm of rage swelled within him, threatening to burst free. But the villagers held him back, fearful for all their sakes.
The officer snarled,
"This is a warning. Watch your step."
They mounted their carriages and rode off.
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A heavy silence settled over the village. Faces fell, hearts weighed down by sorrow and fear. Yet, the work was not finished.
Kenon supported Tarel's injured body as they trudged home. Each step was heavy, the silence between them thick with unspoken thoughts.
Finally, Tarel broke the quiet.
"Kenon, are we truly happy? What is it that we want?"
Kenon looked toward the distant horizon, eyes shadowed with doubt and determination.
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End of Chapter 16