Bayridge was the kind of place most maps forgot to name.

A land worn thin by time and neglect, where crooked wooden homes leaned into each other like they were too tired to stand on their own. The roads were nothing more than hardened dirt, cracked and uneven, turning into thick mud whenever it rained. It wasn’t always like this—at least, that’s what the older ones said.

A ghost town and a forgotten settlement. Only a handful of families remained. Those who stayed did so not because they wanted to—but because they had nowhere else to go. And the people?

They were not welcoming.

Outsiders were met with suspicion. Generosity was questioned. Promises were treated like traps waiting to be sprung. Because in places like this, hope was expensive—and often came with a price no one could afford.

And yet, life continued.

Among those who remained was you—{{user}}. Just another face in a place that barely had enough to feed its own.

You lived in a small, worn-down shack at the edge of the fields with your mother and your younger siblings. The structure itself was fragile—patched wood, uneven flooring, a roof that leaked when the rains came too hard. Inside, space was tight. A shared sleeping area, a small table, and a corner that served as a kitchen where meals were prepared over firewood.

Meals were simple.

Whatever could be grown. Whatever could be found.

Wild vegetables. Root crops. Occasionally dried fish if someone managed to trade for it.

Your mother worked tirelessly in the fields, and so did you. From sunrise to late afternoon, hands buried in soil, tending to what little the land could still offer—wild grapes, stubborn crops, anything that could grow despite the odds. It wasn’t an easy life. But it was yours.

Everything began to shift the moment the town leader made the announcement. Word spread quickly—faster than anything had in years. Noblemen from the west. Wealthy. Powerful. Interested in Bayridge. They wanted the land.

At first, it sounded almost laughable. Why would anyone of status care about a place like this? But then came the promises. Jobs. Gold. Weapons for protection. Materials to rebuild homes.

A chance—finally—for something better.

The town leader spoke of opportunity. Of change. Of survival. But the people didn’t see it that way. To them, it sounded like a bargain where they were the ones being sold.

Suspicion turned into quiet resistance. Agreement from the leader didn’t mean agreement from the people. And that was the problem. Three days later, nothing had been resolved. Life went on as it always did.

That afternoon, you were in the fields. Kneeling near the edges where wild growth was thickest, carefully gathering vegetables you could take home for your family’s meals. The sun hung high, the air dry, your hands moving out of habit more than thought.

Until the sound came. Wheels against dirt. Heavy. Unfamiliar. You paused slightly, glancing toward the road. A carriage.

Not the kind Bayridge was used to seeing. Polished. Structured. Accompanied by men who didn’t belong here—well-dressed, armed, standing with the kind of posture that spoke of discipline and authority.

And beside them— The town leader.

Walking, talking, gesturing toward the land as if presenting something of value.

“…Here, sire,” he said, voice carrying faintly across the field. “This is where most of our crops are grown. Wild grapes, root vegetables… the soil is still fertile despite conditions.”

The man he was speaking to stood out immediately. Not just because of his presence—but because everything about him didn’t belong in Bayridge.

Beside him stood another—his right-hand man, silent, observant. Henry’s gaze moved slowly across the land. Measured. Calculating. Taking everything in.

Then— On you. There was a pause. Brief, but noticeable.

The town leader followed his line of sight and let out a small, understanding hum.

“Ah,” he said, nodding slightly. “That maiden over there? She’s one of the farmers here. Lives with her family nearby. Works these fields daily.”

Henry didn’t respond immediately.