The sun hung low and bloated over the endless rice fields, casting a dull orange pall over the land. The river ran thick and slow at the edge of the paddies, its banks swollen from the summer rains. Barefoot and ragged, men and women moved through the knee-deep water, their backs bent and hands raw from harvesting the tender shoots. They were the unarmed those born without a spark of magic, fated to toil in silence for the tribes who wielded fire and water like gods.
A young boy glanced around. Seeing no one watching, he walked over to a woman, quickly wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of his muddy hand.
"Mother, how do you feel?" he asked in a small whisper.
"Continue working. Mother is strong," the woman answered with a weak smile.
She had been ill for days, only beginning to recover. Knowing her son had labored tirelessly, eating little so she could eat more, she had insisted on returning to the fields today. Though her body was frail and trembling, she forced herself to stand, for his sake. If she faltered, he would bear the punishment, not her. she did not want to worry her son. She did not want him punished because of her.
Around them, the fields buzzed with the low hum of suffering. No one dared raise their voice. To complain was to invite punishment.
seeing that his mother could still put on a strong front,the boy bowed his head and returned to work.
Above them, Water Tribe overseers lounged in shaded pavilions along the riverbank, adorned in blue robes embroidered with silver waves. They twirled rods of condensed water in their hands; a silent threat that needed no words.
As the sun dipped behind the misty mountains, a sharp horn echoed across the fields. The day's labor was over.
The unarmed trudged toward the collection tents where the stewards awaited. The boy supported his mother as they lined up. His frown deepened as he watched the faces of those leaving; faces twisted with disappointment and quiet rage. He could already guess 'the wages were less than promised.'
When they reached the front, a steward in fine robes dropped a handful of tarnished copper coins into the boy's palm without even glancing at him.
He stared at the coins. As expected, it was barely half of what they were owed.
"Next!" barked the steward, waving him away.
"This is far too little," the boy said, his voice steady despite the tight knot in his chest.
The wage was already too small to survive on. Now reduced by half, how could he buy his mother's medicine? How could he feed her properly so she could recover?
His mother tugged at his sleeve, pleading silently for him to move along. But the boy remained rooted to the spot.
Annoyed, the steward struck out at him. The blow grazed the boy's arm, but he did not flinch. Today's theft was too much to bear. Although the stewards often underpaid them, taking more than half their rightful earnings crossed a line. How were they supposed to survive?
All around them, the unarmed who had begun to disperse hesitated, sensing the boy's defiance. Quiet murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The steward stiffened. Trouble among the unarmed could not be tolerated.
From time to time, when the unarmed rose in anger, the clan leaders themselves would punish the stewards responsible executing them as examples.
It was not that the clan leaders did not know the stewards' corruption; it was simply that as long as there was no trouble, they pretended not to notice. In a world where power ruled, such injustices were expected.
Standing off to the side, a young girl in fine clothes watched the scene unfold. Her fists clenched at her sides, her lips parting as if to speak.
A firm hand fell on her shoulder. She turned to find her elder brother.
"Diana. Not here. Not now," he whispered urgently.
"But the steward is stealing!" she hissed.
"He will be punished," her brother assured her. "Just not here. Not now."
Stewards were never punished before the unarmed. It would only embolden the powerless to cause more disturbances.
Biting back her fury, Diana closed her eyes, unable to bear witnessing the injustice.
Meanwhile, the steward, realizing the crowd was growing restless, signaled the overseers. They advanced, spinning their water rods in silent warning, their stares sharp as blades.
Still, the boy refused to move.
The steward considered striking him again, even killing him. But the crowd's stillness was dangerous.
If he killed the boy, chaos would surely erupt and the steward knew he would not survive it.
Cursing under his breath, he studied the boy more closely. He could not have been older than sixteen, thin and small from hardship, yet his spirit burned bright.
Unable to afford either backing down or granting the boy more pay, the steward's eyes fell on the woman standing behind the boy; her fear was obvious,
Calculating quickly, he made his move.
Rather than strike the boy again, he turned and lashed the woman across the back with his water rod.
The crack of the blow echoed across the field.
The woman crumpled to the ground, vomiting a mouthful of blood.
"Mother!" the boy cried, rushing to her.
The steward recoiled in alarm. Though he had struck her hard, the unarmed were usually resilient. He had not expected a single blow to bring her down. Still, it didn't matter. If the woman died here, the boy would surely ignite the entire field.
Without a second thought, the steward hastily tossed a small cloth pouch of coins at the boy.
"Take your sick mother away! Don't bring death and bad luck here!" he snapped.
The boy, torn between rage and desperation, looked at the pouch, then at his mother's limp form. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the coins, lifted his mother onto his back, and staggered away.
The spirit of rebellion fled with him.
One by one, the others accepted their pay in silence.
But the steward did not dare reduce another man's wage that night.