Sithe Farm
Chapter 118
Riverton lay cradled in a pocket of fertile land, an oasis of green framed by ridges and clusters of low, time-worn hills. The territory stretched across nearly six hundred acres, its rich soil perfect for farming, though its potential had long been overlooked by the distant capital. A single broad road cut through the settlement, eventually forking into four distinct paths. Two of these wound lazily through Riverton's small but bustling heart. The third veered east, where the land grew wilder and the road was slowly reclaimed by tangled vegetation. It led into a dense, wall-like forest that stretched for hundreds of miles into uncharted territory—a place where only a handful had ever returned with scraps of knowledge.
It was a realm unlike any other, a place where time and history seemed stripped bare—eras erased, events rearranged—until the very laws of reality bent and buckled. Cause and consequence no longer followed their natural order. Instead, moments from different ages clashed together, stitched into a strange, disjointed tapestry. Here, magic had dominated for countless years, guarding ancient places like the Gorge, where all signs of sentient life, its cultures, races, and accumulated wisdom had long since vanished. What remained were only fragments, ruins no one in the current world dared or cared to question.
No rational explanation existed for this distortion. The truth, however, was far stranger. This world was not born naturally. It was a copy, an imitation of a vast, open-world game created long ago by Dane Lazarus and his eleven team members. The old gods had taken their design, their systems, and their landscapes, and breathed reality into them. The result was a living world built upon the framework of a game, a place where physics bent to narrative needs, where gravity shifted to fit the demands of magic, and where the supernatural stood above common sense.
In the original design, the scattered timelines and contradictory narratives were quirks flaws the players accepted in exchange for limitless freedom. But here, in reality, those flaws became fractures in the very fabric of existence. Roads could be shaped by either nature or divine intervention. Landscapes shifted with no warning. Even history itself could be rewritten, as if some unseen hand, childlike and careless was still playing, still rearranging the pieces for amusement. And, as in every game, when the player grew bored, pieces were simply… removed.
The fourth path from Riverton was older than the rest, a rugged track worn down by decades of neglect. It ran west into the Land of the Weeping Vines, a mist-shrouded swamp of seventy acres that fed the local irrigation channels before vanishing into an even greater forest. This vast woodland encircled Anchorage Castle, its towering trees standing like patient sentinels around the crumbling fortress. The road to the castle had long since been devoured by creeping roots and moss, its stone and concrete hidden beneath nature's slow, relentless work. No one had lived there for decades, and the castle's shadow now belonged to the forest alone.
Past a narrow gorge lay the ruins themselves, draped in moss and silence. Nearby, in a place called the Hollowtree, spoken of in whispers and avoided by most due to its treacherous terrain small farming families eked out a living. Their plots were humble, two acres at most, with vineyards, vegetable gardens, and grain fields. Here, life was simple, stripped down to survival. Few of these people knew or cared that their world had once been nothing more than a game. But Dane Lazarus knew. He understood the underlying truth, and worse, he knew the system was still trying to correct mistakes he and his team had made long ago.
The noble houses of the kingdom, ever greedy and blind to anything not gilded with immediate profit, had once claimed these distant lands under royal decree. But as the years passed and no riches came from them, most nobles dismissed Riverton's territory as unworthy of investment. Its soil was too moist, its water table unpredictable, and its distance from the capital too great. They saw no reason to develop it.
The great mountain range was the land's most immovable guardian, sprawling across the horizon like a tangled web of stone and shadow. From the northern highlands it descended in jagged arcs, its peaks and ridges branching and folding into one another, creating natural barriers that shaped the very map of the kingdom. The range curved eastward in steep, serrated lines, then bent back toward the south, forming a labyrinth of passes and valleys so narrow and treacherous that even the most determined traveler often turned back. In some places, the mountains rose in sheer walls, their faces streaked with silver streams that vanished into chasms below. Elsewhere, they sloped into rolling foothills, only to rise again in sudden, knife-edged summits.
Dense pine forests clung to the lower slopes, giving way to bare stone as the elevation climbed. Snow lingered on the highest crests year-round, glinting faintly even under overcast skies. This natural barricade divided the world into distinct realms: the fertile lands of Riverton and the western territories on one side, the wild, unsettled east on the other, and the cold, wind-scoured north beyond. Few paths crossed these mountains, and those that did were little more than perilous trails known only to hunters, smugglers, and the desperate. To the people of Riverton, the range was both protector and prison, shielding them from distant threats yet cutting them off from the larger world.
The mountains were far from lifeless. Within their folds lay hidden valleys where silver mist lingered even at midday, softening the outlines of pine and stone. Herds of pale-furred elk wandered there, their antlers crowned with moss, while horned mountain goats leapt fearlessly from ledge to ledge. High above, black-winged hawks wheeled in the updrafts, their sharp cries echoing across the cliffs. But the range held stranger life still, creatures whispered of in both awe and fear. Deep in the shadowed caves dwelt the wyrms, ancient serpent-like beings whose molten-gold eyes could pierce the darkness.
In the jagged crags nested cliff-dwelling drakes, their scales the color of weathered iron, diving on unwary travelers with a hiss of steam from their throats. There were gentler presences too: the stone-spirits, slow-moving beings of living rock, who tended the high meadows and were said to bless those who offered them mountain herbs; and the cloud-kites, enormous silver-feathered birds whose wings could carry them above the highest peaks, guiding lost wanderers back to safety.
Yet not all mountain dwellers were so kind. Packs of frost-hounds roamed the icy passes, their howls carrying for miles before they struck, and the glimmerfang,a feline predator with fur like fresh snow, stalked the moonlit slopes in silence. Some spoke of entire villages hidden in the mountains, where sentient, long-lived folk called the Cragborn lived in houses carved from stone itself, trading in secret and keeping the old mountain paths free from the worst of the beasts. The range was a world unto itself, both sanctuary and snare, where beauty and danger walked side by side.
The mountains and their surrounding valleys were rich beyond measure, hiding untapped veins of silver, iron, and rare gemstones, along with vast stretches of fertile highland soil. Yet wealth alone was never enough to tame such a place. Many bands of adventurers and hunters had tried to conquer it, staking their banners on rocky outcrops and declaring the land theirs. A few managed to establish a hold, small fortified settlements perched on cliffs or nestled in sheltered valleys, but only after generations had poured out blood, sweat, and the full strength of their kin.
For every foothold gained, three were lost to avalanches, starving winters, or raids by mountain beasts and desperate men. The journey from the capital to these highlands was long and punishing, winding through narrow passes where bandits and warbands lurked in the shadows, ready to cut down any caravan that dared the road. Royal patrols were few, their numbers thinned by the difficulty of the terrain and the sheer cost of maintaining a force so far from the heart of the kingdom.
In time, the crown's interest waned. To the royal court, the mountain settlements became a drain on resources with no immediate return, their rich mines too costly to defend and their fertile fields too far to feed the capital's tables. The nobles, more concerned with the glitter of easy wealth, quietly sold their rights to these lands for paltry sums rather than waste coin protecting them. Thus, the highlands were left to fend for themselves, abandoned by decree,
forgotten in the archives, their struggles reduced to footnotes in dusty ledgers. But they were not forgotten by those who had nothing. The poor, the outcast, and the desperate began buying pieces of this neglected earth from disinterested lords, their purchases paid in whatever coin or labor they could muster. What began as a trickle became a quiet migration. Out of hardship, danger, and necessity, a network of rugged communities took root, settlements bound not by royal order but by sheer determination to survive where the kingdom had turned its back.
Over time, descendants of the first settlers, these humble farming families, formed a tight-knit society. They shared tools, seeds, and stories. Children grew up side by side; harvests were celebrated together; misfortunes were mourned as one. And as the years passed, the once-forgotten swampy land began to bear fruit literally. Among these rising farms, one stood out: a family-owned vineyard that had managed, through years of toil and experimentation, to produce a wine so rich and unique it began drawing attention beyond Riverton's borders.
That was when Dreswick, a lesser noble that manages Riverton city, turned his eye back toward the land he had long ignored and sold. As the noble lord officially responsible for Riverton's territory, Count Ailmar Dreswick, the current lord , had once dismissed the small muddy patch of land as a waste. But now, with whispers of fine wine reaching the halls of trade and noble banquets, his interest rekindled, not out of stewardship, but out of greed.
The Sither vineyard, under the management and leadership of Elandor and Thessa Sithe, had become profitable, as the other farming families followed their ways in farming the muddy land and producing high-quality grapes, as they were independent and, worst of all, uncontrolled by him. Its success embarrassed him before other nobles, exposing his lack of foresight. Worse still, it inspired nearby families to dream of self-sufficiency, shaking the very order he depended on to maintain power. The Count saw not a vineyard, but a symbol of disobedience, a threat wrapped in grapevines.
And so, under the guise of "land management" and "tax regulation," Count Dreswick began pressuring the family to relinquish their vineyard. What once was land he considered worthless was now a prize he could not afford to lose to commoners. But the family had no intention of giving up what generations had built with sweat, sorrow, and love. The vineyard was not just their livelihood; it was proof that they could flourish without noble mercy. That defiance made them dangerous and a target.
At the heart of Riverton's quiet defiance stood the Sithe family, led by Elandor Sithe, a wiry man hardened by years under sun and toil, his gray-streaked hair and weathered skin a testament to resilience. Alongside his steadfast wife, Thessa, and their three children, Elandor had carved prosperity from the land others deemed cursed. Their vineyard, born from the marshy fringes of the feared Swamp of the Weeping Vines, produced duskblush wine, a deep violet blend whose sweetness lingered like memory on the tongue. While nobles sought it, and farmers envied it, the secret behind its flavor remained locked within the Sithe lineage.
Rumors swirled around the swamp's dark influence on the wine; some claimed it was the water drawn from the mists of the Weeping Vines, others whispered of ancient roots beneath the vineyard, nourished by buried things best forgotten. Yet the Sithes spoke no truths, guarding their land's silence as fiercely as they guarded each other. The swamp was feared throughout Riverton; fog rolled in unseasonably cold, and the trees wept red sap that stained the hands. Soft cries were said to echo from within its heart, and elders whispered it was no mere marsh but a prison, holding something ancient that had once been sealed away.
Victor Sithe, the eldest son, had once dismissed these stories. But after returning from a decade of war, scarred and weary, they no longer seemed like tales. Retired from battle, Victor now oversaw the vineyard, his younger brother Lora away studying at the Royal Academy. Once a soldier in Duchess Elleena Rothchester's personal guard, Lora had chosen a different path—seeking truth and magic rather than blade and blood.
But neither sword nor spell could shield the family from Count Ailmar Dreswick, the local noble whose jealousy had grown with every cask of duskblush praised in royal halls. Count Dreswick, who had once ignored Riverton's lowlands, now saw its wine as a crown jewel stolen from him by commoners. He sent taxmen and inspectors, seized shipments without payment, and hinted at royal decrees that would claim the swamp as protected land—forbidding the water that gave the vineyard life.
Elandor knew the truth. This wasn't law; it was conquest. The Count didn't just want the wine; he wanted to erase the symbol the Sithes had become. Their independence sparked quiet defiance among other farmers. Riverton's soil was whispering rebellion.
And yet, beneath this political pressure lay a deeper fear. The swamp was changing. Its animals fled. Its water grew foul. And young Isla Sithe, Elandor's daughter, once returned from its edge pale and silent, clutching a vine dripping with black sap. When she finally spoke, she said only, "It remembers."
The old folk believed the seals under Hollowtree were weakening. Something ancient stirred. But survival trumped superstition, and so the Sithes, like their neighbors, continued to draw water from the swamp. They had no choice.
Now they stood between two storms: Count Dreswick tightening his grip from above and a forgotten force awakening below.
a few days prior ,In the Royal Academy, Lora Sithe stood in a tower window, her eyes on the west. A letter from Victor, stained with soil and wine, brought troubling news. The Hollowtree was fouling wells and sickening farmers, and the ancient guardian said to protect the swamp had turned violent. The Academy labeled it a local contamination—a chance for students to prove themselves. But Lora knew better.
When her cousin Ormin Vos Sither urged her to sign the quest parchment pinned to the Academy board, she hesitated. Riverton was her home, and Hollowtree wasn't just a legend. Accepting the quest meant more than facing monsters. It meant facing the truth she had long avoided—that her future in magic had always been built upon her family's suffering, and that her duty was not in arcane theory, but in protecting the people she left behind.
Victor's words haunted her: "We need you, Lora. Not because you're a Sithe, but because you've seen both worlds."
And so, Lora returned.
She arrived with a band of fellow students: Lady Melgil Veara Gehinnom, Thalen Merrow, Ysil Thorne, Galen Althus, and Lord Daniel Rothchester. They had survived the swamp's horrors together. They had seen the twisted beasts, once creatures of the forest, now puppets of something older than the Academy could name. And they had fought them and bled with them.
But returning to Riverton meant more than battle. It meant facing Count Dreswick.
Count Ailmar Dreswick greeted them at the guild hall with veiled contempt. His words dripped with mockery as he acknowledged Lora's survival. Halric, his son, stood nearby, silent. He had once been Lora's friend when they were young, back when noble blood and farmer's hands had meant less. Now, Halric looked away. Lora offered no reply to the Count. She had faced death in the Vines. His threats were nothing.
After they set out toward the vineyard, the late afternoon sun draped the land in gold, spilling long ribbons of light across the rolling fields. The vineyard still stretched before them like a green sea, its endless rows swaying in the mild breeze. Here and there, clusters of grapes hung unpicked, their skins heavy and dark, like forgotten jewels clinging to the vines. The land was healing, though its wounds were still visible, the soil tired, and the leaves dulled by weeks of strain.
The swamp that fed the vineyard's irrigation had turned foul not long ago, its once-clear waters sluggish and dark, strangling the life from the fields. But that was before Daniel. He had gone into the depths, faced the thing that poisoned the waters, and returned victorious. Lara knew the land would recover now; the vineyards had endured hardship before, and each time, they had come back stronger.
The old stone farmhouse stood at the vineyard's edge, a sentinel of weathered walls and a roof patched more times than anyone could count. Moss crept up its northern face, and ivy clung to the shutters. A wooden porch wrapped around the front, its railings smoothed by the hands of generations. Inside, warmth wrapped around them like an embrace. The air carried the scent of fresh bread, simmering stew, and the faint, earthy tang of drying herbs. The kitchen was small but full of life, with an oak table polished to a soft glow by years of meals, surrounded by mismatched chairs worn smooth at the arms. Bundles of rosemary, sage, and wild thyme dangled from the rafters, brushing against the faint drift of heat rising from the stone hearth.
Lara's mother moved with practiced grace as she set the table, her dark hair tied back with a simple ribbon, her face lined by years of labor but softened by an enduring gentleness. Her father emerged from the cellar with a bottle of deep red wine, the cork weathered from age. They asked no questions that night. They did not need to. Whatever had happened beyond their farm, whatever dangers Lara had faced, the light in her eyes told them everything.
But beyond the vineyard's quiet warmth, Riverton still lay in shadow. The fog clung stubbornly to its streets, and with it came a taut, unspoken tension that coiled like smoke through the town—and through the cold stone halls of Count Ailmar Dreswick's manor. In his private study, where the air always smelled faintly of old vellum and sharp ink, the Count sat rigid in a high-backed chair of carved oak. His gloved fingers tapped in slow, deliberate rhythm against the lacquered armrest, each sound echoing his growing irritation. On the polished desk before him lay a folded report, the seal of the Adventurers' Guild cracked and broken. He had read it three times already, and still, the words refused to twist themselves into anything more to his liking.
Lora Sithe had returned. Alive.
Months ago, she had been presumed dead—lost on a failed quest in some forsaken corner of the land. Yet here she was, back in Riverton, carrying both the Guild's emblem and the stamped insignia of a completed mission. Official. Indisputable. That alone was enough to sour Dreswick's mood, but what unsettled him more was the manner of her return—the timing, the sudden surge of attention, and, most of all, the silence of her parents. Elandor and Thessa Sithe had offered nothing but polite smiles and the shield of Guild confidentiality. Their answers were tight, their composure infuriatingly steady.
Dreswick felt mocked.
The Sithe family had been a thorn in his side for years—skilled at dancing along the edge of legality, invoking Guild protections at the exact moment he thought he had them cornered. He had tried diplomacy. Then regulation. Then quiet threats whispered in back halls. None of it worked. And now, their daughter had returned and had accomplished a sanctioned royal guild quest with her friends and teammates; her name was carried in whispers through the taverns as a native of the land, the markets, and even the chapel. Every murmur strengthened their influence and weakened his.
Yet the most troubling detail in the report was not Lora at all—it was a name buried deep in her debriefing: Daniel. No surname. No guild records. No noble lineage. A blank page in the kingdom's archives. To Dreswick, that made him dangerous. He pressed Elandor for answers and got feigned ignorance; Thessa offered even less. The name floated between them like a secret they had no intention of surrendering.
Who was this Daniel? A hired sword? A foreign agent? A bastard noble? Or something worse? Dreswick loathed unknowns, and this boy was wrapped in more ambiguity than he could stomach. What he did not know, what no one in Riverton yet knew, was that Daniel was no commoner at all but the long-presumed-dead son of Duchess Elleena Rothchester, thought lost to war or something darker. His survival, once revealed, would shake the noble courts to their core. But for now, that truth remained shrouded, sealed behind the same fog that blanketed the valley.
Dreswick's focus narrowed to the Sithe estate. Every passing day, their sway over the townsfolk grew. Their daughter's return had shifted the balance of power, and their silence was as deliberate as any weapon. The Count could feel control slipping through his fingers like dry sand. He would not allow it. Riverton was his dominion. The Guild had been tolerated for too long.
He rose from his chair, the report still clutched tight in his fist. Outside, the fog pressed hard against the windows, thick and unmoving. Behind him, the fire hissed low in the grate. It felt as though the land itself was conspiring to keep him blind. And Dreswick, feeling the edges of his patience fray, decided then and there that the Sithe family's game was about to end—whether the Guild liked it or not.