Scholn de Lorens looked at Monalia with a feeling familiar to everyone who returns home after a long separation—when the soul sings, and the heart is ready to burst from tenderness. Every bush seemed a precious stone in the golden frame of native land, every speck of dust dissolved in blood and memory, became part of childhood that cannot be forgotten.
He stopped by a roadside bush covered with bluish-black berries. Wolfberries, poisonous—memory prompted. Here, in Monalia, the very thought of poison seemed blasphemous. On this land, they won't poison me, he thought with tenderness bordering on madness. As if between him and the land a secret childhood pact of loyalty was sealed.
The berries burst with the sweet juice of a summer noon. Fruits exuded the aroma of ancient tales by the home hearth. Even vegetables in peasant beds were blessed by the land itself. Rivers flowed with majesty, full of silvery fish—living arteries of the world, carrying music and coolness. Mountains rose to the heavens like sketches of the Creator's best creation. And even the mud underfoot was welcoming—softly settling on clothes like a gentle reminder of the holy land.
Absurd—to attribute noble intentions to mud. What can you do if the heart sees symbols where reason states physics?
As soon as the invisible border was left behind—the world turned inside out. In Kriver, everything shrank, faded, filled with hostility. The very air was permeated with stale resentment.
Berries hung like black beads of curse—bitter, as if they had absorbed all the bile of this land. Fruits blushed on the outside but rotted inside. Rivers flowed murky, leaving a metallic taste—you couldn't drink them even dying of thirst. Mountains seemed flattened hills. Grass was almost black, as if a fiery demon had passed over it.
Is it all because of which side of the border you stand on? Scholn pondered. Or does this land really remember the blood and poison everything living?
On the road through Monalia, he met amazing people—open like a children's book. They rejoiced at every traveler with sincere immediacy. Scholn wore the universal armor of a knight—a uniform that didn't distinguish armies in the borderlands.
The crowd cheered at his appearance. Children bombarded with naive questions: "Uncle knight, did you kill a dragon?" Old people nodded approvingly: "A fine defender!" He was treated to bread, cheese, ale, thanked for protecting the kingdom.