The end of July was scorched yellow by the blazing sun.
The cicadas buzzed themselves hoarse as heat waves rolled over every inch of land in the White Tower Territory.
But on the vast tidal flats reclaimed from the sea, another, even more fervent emotion was spreading.
CLANG.
A shovel struck hard earth.
The soil turned over.
A cluster of plump tubers, caked in moist soil, rolled out. Their skin was rough, dotted with grayish-white salt crystals, and each was the size of a grown man's fist.
"We've got a crop!"
A farmer yelled at the top of his lungs.
That shout was like lighting a fuse.
The entire field erupted.
A middle-aged scribe in a mud-spattered robe stood on a ridge, holding one of the freshly dug "Sea Salt Potatoes." Its heavy weight settled into his palm, a weight more reassuring than gold.
"Can you really eat this stuff?"
A newly recruited refugee standing nearby swallowed hard, staring at the dusty clod of earth.
