From a distance, the village seemed idyllic—mud-brick homes nestled among tufts of green, smoke rising lazily from chimneys. But as Sharath rode closer, the illusion peeled away like old paint.
The river was a thin, dark ribbon, filled more with refuse than water. A young girl knelt beside it, rinsing vegetables while trying to shield them from the oily scum. Nearby, a mother cradled a feverish infant, her face set in grim determination as flies swarmed.
The stench of uncollected waste and stagnation clung to everything.
An old man, sitting beside a broken cart, looked up as Sharath passed.
"They said a prince would come to save us," he said hoarsely. "But no one did."
Sharath opened his mouth, then closed it.
What answer could he give?