The success of Arthur's leaf antitoxin—the green powder derived from venom and herbs—had rippled through Redania like a shockwave. It was no longer just the poor who sought his "New Ways"; even the wealthy began to stock his vials. For the first time in history, the fear of the Balisse fruit and common forest toxins had been neutralized by a five-year-old's chemistry.
But as Arthur walked through the rural outskirts of Tretogor to observe the environmental conditions, he found a different kind of poison: prejudice.
A group of Redanian peasants stood over a huddle of elven laborers, their pitchforks trembling with misplaced rage. The air was dry, the soil cracked, and the wheat bowed its head in a premature death.
"It's the pointed-ears!" a lead farmer spat, pointing a calloused finger at an elven elder. "The harvest is shriveled and the rains have fled. They've cursed the land with their elder magic because we took the fields!"
"We have no hand in the sky's whims, human," the elf replied, his voice thin with exhaustion. "We starve as you do."
Arthur stepped into the center of the confrontation. The crowd parted immediately. Even the most ignorant peasant recognized the Prince whose medicines had saved their children from the rot-fever.
"What is the meaning of this disruption?" Arthur asked, his voice possessing a gravity that commanded silence.
"My Prince, do not trust these creatures!" the farmer pleaded. "The wells are low and the stalks are yellow. It's elven witchcraft, plain as day."
Arthur looked at the yellowed wheat and the dry horizon. He didn't see witchcraft; he saw a climatic shift and a lack of soil nitrogen. He saw a world that didn't understand the very air it breathed.
"You want a culprit for your hunger?" Arthur said, his eyes scanning the crowd. "Then stop guessing and start observing. I will show you the real cause of this drought—and the secret of the life you are currently wasting."
He turned to the shivering elves and the angry farmers. "Bring me two glass jars, two rats, two candles, and one potted plant. Move. It is an order."
The group was shocked. The elves understood the request for a plant, but the peasants were convinced the Prince was about to perform a ritual. They scrambled to obey, returning shortly with the strange assortment of items.
Arthur set them on a flat stone, the crowd pressing in. He knew that to uproot the "Old Ways," he had to prove that the world operated on invisible laws, not invisible curses.
The crowd pressed in, their breath misting in the dry, dusty air as Arthur arranged his components on a flat stone. Under one large glass jar, he placed a single lit candle and a small, frantic rat. Under the second jar, he placed an identical candle, another rat, and the potted plant.
"Watch," Arthur commanded.
Within minutes, the first jar's candle flickered and died. Seconds later, the rat within began to gasp, its tiny chest heaving before it slumped into unconsciousness. The peasants gasped, crossing themselves against what they assumed was a "death spell."
But under the second jar, the candle remained bright. The rat sat calmly, twitching its nose beside the green leaves of the plant.
"There is no magic here," Arthur said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "The air is a finite resource. The fire and the beast consume it, turning it into a poison that kills. But the flora—the trees and the grass—they drink that poison. They purify the very breath of the world and, in doing so, they release moisture back into the heavens."
He turned his gaze toward the barren, stump-filled hills that surrounded the village.
"You blame the Elves for the drought?" Arthur's voice dropped an octave, dripping with cold logic. "It was you, the peasants of Redania, who cleared the ancient groves to make room for more stunted wheat. You stripped the skin from the earth. Without the trees to exhale moisture and call the clouds, the rain has no reason to fall. The air has become stagnant and polluted because you killed the very lungs that cleaned it."
The peasants stood frozen. They looked at the green plant thriving in the jar, then at the desolate hills they had cleared with their own axes. The realization hit them like a physical blow; they weren't victims of a curse, but of their own ignorance.
The elves stood with their arms crossed, glaring at the humans with a mixture of vindication and bitter triumph. The elder elf stepped forward, a sharp glint in his eyes as he looked at the "duds" who had nearly killed his kin.
"A masterfully delivered truth, Prince," the elder said, his voice smooth. "They see now that their own greed dried the sky. But since you have opened their eyes to one mystery, we request you solve another. The soil in the northern flats has turned black and bitter, killing the cattle that graze there. The humans say we poisoned the grass with spite. Show them the truth of that, too, so these fools might finally understand the depth of their idiocy."
Arthur looked at the blackened soil samples the elves produced. He didn't need a microscope to know what he was looking at.
Arthur stood over the patch of blackened, bitter soil, his small fingers sifting through the dry grit. He didn't look at the sky or the "curse" the peasants feared; he looked at the molecular deficit.
"You treat the land like a bottomless well," Arthur began, his voice ringing across the silent field. "But the earth is no different than the rat in my jar or the soldiers in your father's army. It requires nutrients to remain healthy. Just as a man withers without bread, the flora withers when the soil is hollow."
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his palms. "You have farmed this same plot for three generations without rest. You take the grain, you take the straw, and you give nothing back. Do you think the strength of the earth is infinite? You have literally eaten the future of your own soil. The 'bitterness' isn't elven spite—it is the death rattle of a starved land."
The Redanian peasants stood in stunned silence, their mouths agape. They had spent years praying to the Eternal Fire for a better harvest, never realizing they were the ones bleeding the land dry.
The elves were openly enjoying the spectacle. They stood with their arms crossed, some leaning against the remaining trees, wearing sneers of pure vindication. To see the "superior" humans exposed as blundering children by their own Prince was a sweetness better than any wine.
"To restore the life you stole," Arthur continued, "you need to replenish the nitrogen and minerals. You could use organic manure—decaying matter that returns life to the dirt. The Aen Seidhe have known this for ages, but I know your pride. You find the 'old ways' of the woods beneath you."
He looked at the peasants' disgusted faces at the mention of manure.
"Very well. Since you find the natural way distasteful, I will provide the chemical way. I will synthesize fertilizers—concentrated salts of nitrogen and phosphorus—that will force the earth to wake up. But it is not a miracle; it is a loan from the world of science."
The elder elf stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction. He looked at the lead farmer, who was now staring at his boots in burning shame.
"Well?" the elf hissed, his voice like a whip. "The Prince has stripped your ignorance bare. You blamed us for the drought you caused with your axes. You blamed us for the rot you caused with your greed. Apologize."
One by one, the peasants muttered their shamed apologies, their faces red with the realization of their own idiocy. Arthur watched them, his mind already calculating the yields of a chemically enhanced Redania.