As the words floated through the air, a fire ignited in the eyes of the crowd—one that hadn't been there moments ago. The talk was not merely about a virtuous man, but about a painful comparison. Where were the nobles who earned vast sums for doing nothing? Those who boasted of rare pelts on their shoulders, though their feet had never once touched the parched soil of remote villages? How could they compare to a man who made nobility a pursuit, not just a title? Faces turned pale, and silence transformed into a simmering anger. The conversation was no longer a recounting—it had become a silent condemnation.
What Margola said wasn't just an argument—it was a trap, veiled in reverence and legitimacy. At that moment, he moved, stepping closer to the knight. He said nothing, but his gaze spoke. His look was neither threatening nor pitiful—it was a quiet acknowledgment that the game had begun, and she was now caught in its center, with no path of escape. She remained silent. To onlookers, she may have appeared composed, but Margola, with his unfailing eye, knew she had begun to see the truth: the stage had been set, the audience had chosen, and she was left with only two options—withdraw, or burn in the flames.
Suddenly, in an unexpected moment, an elderly woman pushed through the crowd. Her body was hunched, as though the weight of her years had settled entirely on her shoulders. Her eyes were sunken into a face lined with wrinkles deep as valleys carved by sorrow. Yet they gleamed with something indescribable—perhaps anger, perhaps hope, or a mixture of both. She wore a simple, faded dress and a dusty-colored shawl that covered what remained of her white hair.
Her steps were slow, but she showed no hesitation. With each movement, the crowd seemed to pull back, as if making way for a truth that could not be denied. In that moment, everyone knew that what she was about to say would change everything. She stood at the front of the crowd, eyes questioning, heart heavy, staring at the knight. Then, suddenly, her voice cracked the air like lightning in a quiet sky:
"My son!! My son died from those cursed diseases!!!"
Her scream was not just words—it was a wail torn from her depths, as though it had long echoed within her chest and was now unleashed upon the world without mercy. Her voice was a blend of fury and despair, of motherhood and betrayal. Her tears poured like a flood, unashamed and unhidden. She wept openly, fiercely—a mother who had lost her reason to live, unafraid of stares, her heart laid bare.
"Four years!" she continued in a choked voice. "Four years he battled the fever, writhing on his bed, his skin burning like embers that never cooled. Every day, I counted his heartbeats as if they were my last tie to this world. No medical convoy came from the capital... not even a letter... no one knocked on our door to ask. No one!!"
She bent slightly, as though the weight of grief was heavier than her frame could bear. She placed a hand on her side, gathering what strength remained. Then she raised her head high, her tear-filled eyes blazing, her voice rising clearer and angrier:
"Where was the kingdom then? Where were the knights who were supposed to protect us?! We were dying slowly, burning in our pain, and no one saw us!"
Her words peeled away at the skin of those present, sentence after sentence, like lashes on their consciences. She gestured with her trembling hand toward the horizon—toward the silent soldiers, toward the royal knight who stood within her view, frozen like a statue, unresponsive.
"No compensation came... no words of solace... not even a slip of paper to confirm that my son was a human being! They just wrote his name in the records of the dead, as though he were nothing more than a passing event! We, the people of this town, are drained every year, left with disease and death, and now you throw empty statements at us about national security?!"
She paused, looking around at the faces circling her. Eyes were tearing up; some people stared at the ground in shame. She then continued, her voice rough, soaked in anguish:
"We have always sacrificed. We have always endured. We have always died in silence... Is it not our right to be treated as part of this country? Not as a burden forgotten at the first sign of peace! But no, to you, we are just a distant town, only remembered when the threat grows... as if we are too insignificant to be noticed!"
Around her, people began to weep—some quietly, others with audible sobs. Murmurs rose, swelling into a wave of collective anger, moving steadily toward a single cry. At the center of it all stood the royal knight—not a symbol of strength anymore, but the embodiment of silent authority, of the state's betrayal, of broken promises. All eyes turned to her—it was a silent trial, hearts no longer seeing her as safety, but as treachery. She had failed a mother, failed a town, perhaps failed an entire nation.
Cries erupted from multiple directions. The issue was no longer just between Margola and the knight commander—it had spread between the people and the knights, between the very walls of the kingdom, and between those who held power and those who had nothing but endurance. And from within the crowd, packed like waves, a man pushed his way forward. He was middle-aged, his clothes old and faded but clean. His face was carved with firm lines, each one a story of pain. But his eyes… his eyes glowed with a calm sorrow—the kind that doesn't cry, but carries the storm within.
When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, tinged with the ache of long days, as if his very words had passed through clouds of rage and disappointment:
"We're not asking for miracles..." He paused, his words carried by the air across faces tired from waiting. Then he continued:
"Our town... it's not just a place we live in. We have potential, we have hope. If the roads were opened, if the curse was lifted, we could be more than just a town—we could become a trade route, a meeting point, a stop for caravans—not a pit where death visits each year."
He stopped. His breath tangled with the echo of his voice. Then he went on, sharper now, his words clearer:
"We possess the location, we have the resources. What we lack... is the opportunity. The chance to let our brave ones go, to open the way for us, to shatter the chains."
He slowly raised his hand and pointed at the three knights. His tone softened, but it carried deeper pain, as if carved from within:
"The real obstacle... is you!!!"
His words were not a speech; they were daggers, finding their mark, slicing into hearts and leaving their trace. As his words ended, Margola's eyes shifted back to the commander. He raised his voice and asked:
"So... after all that's been said... is your decision still the same? Will you still forbid us from leaving?"
The response came immediately—sharp, clear, in a voice that did not waver, as if its speaker were not human but an iron echo from another world.
"Yes… I still refuse to let you go!"
She uttered the words with a coldness bordering on cruelty. She stood firm, her golden armor gleaming like a mirror of authority that brooked no debate. But before the echoes of her voice vanished into the air, something small and wet struck her chest. A ripe tomato, red as blood, burst against her armor, leaving a dark crimson blotch—like a stain of disgrace on polished gold.
The crowd gasped. Heads turned. Hands covered mouths in instinct. The knight turned—and from between the ranks, the culprit emerged. A young woman, a half-human mouse, barely in her late twenties. Nothing about her suggested rebellion—no armor, no banner, no weapon. Just worn, patched home clothes and a tattered cloth bag. She looked like she had just left the vegetable market. Her other hand was empty but clenched, fingers tight, as if grasping something invisible—perhaps a memory, perhaps pain.
Her face was streaked with dried tears, and her thin body trembled, as though a lifelong struggle was unfolding within her. But her eyes... her eyes were not those of a grieving girl—but of a woman set ablaze by fury, now burning with an unquenchable flame. She screamed, as though her voice had erupted from a crack in the earth:
"My husband died from those cursed diseases! He was a strong young man—we were planning a home, a life, a future to laugh in! But he died! And with him, everything died!"
Her voice was more than a complaint—it was a summons, a wound. She raised her shaking hand and pointed at the knights. Her words dripped with bitterness:
"Who are you to decide our lives?! Who are you to stop us from seeking salvation?! We didn't elect you! We never pledged to you! We never gave you power over our fate!"