For most, life in Ethinburg was grim. The kingdom's cruelty was widely known, yet its borders were fiercely safe, offering a stark contrast to the warring chaos outside. People lived here because they survived here. But survival alone was never enough; people needed something to believe in. For the common folk, Arthur Highland served as that hope. He was living proof that a good, honest man could thrive, even within the corrupt nobility. He was the exception that made living under the Crown bearable, representing the possibility that a happy life, or even a just one, was still attainable. When the people heard Arthur was found guilty, the verdict wasn't just a death sentence for a noble; it was the execution of that hope.
Arthur always thought he was clever, but the Royal Family was always one step ahead of him. From their eyes, he was just getting rid of filth from the kingdom. He crossed the line on David. The Royal Family knew better than anyone that Arthur was behind the random killings and the kidnapping investigation. While the trial was a sham, his guilt—and the fact that his tenants and the people on his land must have known—was the true justification for their revenge. The people were too proud, too hopeful, and had to be broken. The moment Arthur was sentenced, the Nargesver descended on the Highland district like a plague.
These were not men; they were demons in human skin. They moved without a shred of emotion or expression, yet the oppressive weight of their bloodlust could be physically felt, an aura so profound it was said to scare away even the jungle's fiercest predators. Their presence alone was ruin. Everything they touched withered: they systematically slaughtered the livestock, burnt the vital crops, and razed the barns and workers' homes. Those who lived nearby watched in paralyzing horror as everything they had ever worked for, the very things that brought life to the land, was reduced to ash and blood. This instant destruction of their means of income was followed by a devastating edict for the Highlanders' staff. Any servant or worker who showed loyalty to the Highland family was barred from employment anywhere else in the kingdom, effectively trapping them to work for the Highlanders without pay until the family's inevitable ruin. The family itself was spared, but only to receive the atrocity as a definitive warning. Arthur's death had not just executed hope; it had executed defiance.
The King ensured the punishment went beyond physical terror. Immediately following the execution, the Crown launched a vicious propaganda campaign. Royal decrees defamed the Highlanders, calling them "wolves in sheep's clothing" who only helped the common folk to serve their own homicidal ends. The Crown publicly framed the deaths of the Sunflower's guards as the loss of innocent citizens, claiming any cruelty inflicted by the Crown was done out of desperation, unlike Arthur's vengeful bloodlust. Simultaneously, the King moved to enforce a slow, economic strangulation. A royal decree swiftly banned all noble and government bodies from purchasing any goods from the Highland district. This was a calculated, painful campaign, designed to force the family to watch their immense wealth and influence bleed out slowly, day by day, knowing their demise was inevitable.
This was the inheritance Martin Highland received: a massacre, a shattered reputation, and a death sentence delivered by commerce.
Martin never spoke of his father's final choice. He didn't need to; the consequence was the atmosphere the family breathed. He became the new head of a ruined household, spending the next ten years trying to mend barns that were too often burnt again, and negotiating with merchants who would only offer scraps for his family's produce. They watched their life savings diminish, forced to maintain the façade of nobility while slowly starving behind their own gates. The old manor, once a symbol of generosity and pride, became a prison shrouded in silent, grinding poverty.
Martin survived the trauma of his father's downfall by choosing to live in cold, perpetual silence. He learned that anger had a price—the lives of the innocent—and he would never pay it again. He became a man whose eyes held the weary memory of his father's red rage and the echoing scream of a tortured bandit. His sole focus was survival, even if that meant shedding every ounce of his family's former moral dignity.
The Highlanders were the ones who lived. But they lived only in a state of carefully maintained penury, political exile, and constant, quiet paranoia. This was the life Agna was now privy to—a life ruled by the shadow of a hero who chose defiance, and the son who chose absolute, desperate survival.
End of chapter...