Waters rise, and the skies do groan,


    Cursed are the paths my feet have known.


    The winds that howl, the storms that tear,


    Were sewn by hands too proud to care.


    The world may crumble, the trees may fall,


    The stars may flicker, their light too small.


    O’er jagged waves, I steer my way,


    For the sins of the past, I pay today.


    The song was mournful, yet the children sang it with an oddly upbeat rhythm. It turned something haunting into a strangely fitting, almost uplifting melody. The contrast grated on Ibarius’s nerves. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to shout at them, to tell them to stop and run far from his sight. Instead, he sighed and forced himself to stay patient.


    The humiliation from earlier replayed in his mind, gnawing at his pride. How dare they? How dare his brother shame him in front of everyone? And all for a woman? Had Nelius lost his mind?


    Ibarius had never understood why his brother, Nelius Tuscan, wanted to keep searching for a better land when they had already found this paradise. Here, they were safe—free from bullies, thieves, and the constant threats that had chased them for so long. After the witch hunt and the subsequent curse, their people had no place left in the world. To outsiders, Tuscanians were little more than a disease, a blight to be eradicated.


    The Tuscanians had fought, resisting their enemies with everything they had. But their numbers had been too small, too few to stand against the armies of the Yadoran, Devatonkan, and Elysian empires. The witch hunt had drained their resources, leaving their homeland barren and defenseless. Starving and weakened, they became easy targets for the stronger empires, who crushed their resistance like dried leaves underfoot.


    In the end, they had no choice but to abandon their land if they hoped to save those who still lived. So, they fled—through forests, deserts, and across treacherous waters. Always moving, always huddled together like exiles. When exhaustion claimed them, they set up temporary camps to recover or replenish what little they could.


    It was a journey of endless trials. They fought armies that barred them from crossing borders, terrified the curse would spread if they let Tuscanians in. They endured the relentless heat of the deserts, the predators lurking in the woods, and the raging storms at sea. They battled desert raiders and fled from serpents so massive and fearsome that meeting their gaze meant certain death.


    Everywhere they went, they were unwelcome, chased like a plague. Their numbers dwindled, not one by one, but in clusters—entire families lost to the elements, to violence, or to despair.


    In truth, they were like a flower plucked from its stem, its petals wilting and falling one by one. Chased from their home, stripped of their place in the world, they had become wanderers—always searching, never belonging.


    The world had been cruel to them. So why, after all they had endured, would Nelius want to return to it? After all the pain and humiliation, after losing everything they once had, why risk it again?Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    Ibarius couldn’t understand it. Ambitious as Ibarius was, even he despised the circumstances under which he had been anointed. He would have preferred for his brother to stay here, in the safety of their new homeland, and pass the mantle of leadership to him in peace. Even after Nelius had publicly humiliated him, Ibarius didn’t wish for his brother to face the same horrors they had once fled—the endless running, the starvation, the battles for survival. The thought stirred an uncomfortable flicker of pity in his heart, though he buried it quickly.


    “Brother!”


    The call broke Ibarius from his thoughts. He turned to see Nelius resting under the shadows of the bordering trees with his wife, Rosa, and the twenty-eight men who would accompany him on his journey. Nelius’s eyes met Ibarius’s, and with a nod, he motioned for him to come closer.


    Ibarius took a step forward, but before he could reach him, Nelius rose and began walking toward him instead. Ibarius stopped, waiting, observing his brother’s purposeful stride. Without a word, Nelius gestured for him to follow, leading him away from the gathering and into the shadow of a tree farther out.


    Once there, Nelius hesitated, his expression conflicted. He seemed to swallow hard, as though whatever he was about to say carried a burden too heavy to bear alone.


    Ibarius frowned slightly, realizing this wasn’t going to be one of Nelius’s long-winded lectures on leadership or the responsibilities of a ruler. This was different. Nelius looked as though he was about to reveal a secret, one that no one—not even Ibarius—was meant to know.


    Ibarius waited, his impatience simmering beneath a facade of calm. Whatever it was, it had better be important.


    Finally, after an internal struggle that played out visibly on his face, Nelius began to speak.


    “Ibarius,” he said, his voice low, “you must be wondering—as would everyone else—why I chose to anoint you, even after what happened earlier.”


    He hesitated, his words trailing off.


    Ibarius suppressed a smirk. Wondering? Why would he wonder about that? He hadn’t even entertained the idea that his brother might find a last-minute replacement to take his place. The anointment was inevitable. The only thing Ibarius truly wondered about was why Nelius, a man otherwise so pragmatic, had such a soft heart—soft enough to treat a weaker species like women as equals to mighty men.


    It was baffling.


    Nelius exhaled heavily, his gaze distant. “As you know, it’s the duty of the leader stepping down to choose his successor wisely—to select someone who can serve the people in the way they need most at that moment. Someone who possesses the qualities required to uplift them in the face of their challenges.” He paused, his eyes never meeting Ibarius’s. “I chose you because you have certain… rigid qualities. Qualities that they need desperately right now. You’re the kind of authority who can keep them in line, herding them into a disciplined path with no room for compromise. Rude, yes, but effective.”


    He glanced toward the group gathered beneath the trees, watching the people as they exchanged farewells with the warriors who would soon depart with him. Their laughter and camaraderie felt heavy with the knowledge that this might be the last time they would share such a moment.


    Ibarius frowned, his brows knitting in concentration. After a moment, he shook his head. “Brother, you know me—I’m a simple man, bound by stubborn values. I don’t like riddles, and I certainly can’t make sense of your roundabout words. I ask you plainly: simplify this for me.”


    Nelius turned from the people and fixed his gaze on Ibarius, his expression solemn. “There are things in this world that we do not, cannot, and should not understand,” he said.


    “Like those witches?” Ibarius asked, seeking clarification.


    Nelius hesitated, his eyes darting toward the group as if ensuring no one could overhear them. “I’m not so sure anymore,” he said softly. “I don’t know if they’re witches at all.”


    Ibarius’s mouth fell open in shock. “That’s absurd,” he snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. He stomped the ground, raising a hand as if to grab his brother’s shoulder but stopped short, choosing restraint. “You know what they’ve done to us. You know what happened to our people. It was the witch hunt that drove us to this—have you forgotten?” His voice trembled with suppressed anger.


    “I haven’t forgotten,” Nelius interjected sharply, his glare silencing Ibarius. “But listen to yourself. It wasn’t the witches who pushed us to this brink—it was the hunt itself.”


    Ibarius rubbed his temples, frustration building. “I don’t understand, brother. How can you separate the two? Aren’t they the same?”


    Nelius’s gaze turned distant, his voice low and heavy with uncertainty. “I don’t think so. I believe we tampered with forces far darker than mere witches or black magic.”