The cold threat hung in the air long after the Prince's enforcer and his guards had stomped out, their polished boots echoing on the packed earth outside. Mara sank back onto the straw pallet, clutching me to her chest, trembling. Her breath hitched in ragged gasps, small, broken sounds of profound fear. The other occupants of the hovel, who had shrunk into the shadows during the visit, slowly began to stir, their faces etched with the same terror. There was no defiance, no anger, just a deep, pervasive resignation.
I lay nestled against Mara, feeling the rapid thump of her heart. My infant body, unable to move or speak, was a cage. My adult mind raged, a silent scream against the helplessness. I had faced down a simulated deity, navigated a reality built on code, but this? This was visceral, raw, and utterly without artifice. There were no glitches here, no hidden command lines. Only the stark, brutal reality of power and subjugation. The Prince wasn't a program; he was a tangible, cruel force.
The rest of the day was a slow, grinding testament to the destitution of this new life. Mara rose again, still trembling, and forced herself to the rough loom in the corner of the hovel. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of the shuttle became the relentless soundtrack of our existence. Her hands, gnarled and raw, moved with practiced, desperate speed, weaving coarse threads into textiles. Every missed knot, every loose weave, would count against the impossible quota.
I spent my hours observing, my infant eyes, despite their blurry limitations, taking in every detail. The hovel was small, perpetually damp. A single, sputtering lamp provided meager light as dusk fell, casting dancing shadows that seemed to swallow the already sparse furnishings. The air smelled perpetually of damp earth, woodsmoke, and the faint, underlying stench of poverty. Food was scarce; Mara and the others ate a thin, watery stew that night, each spoonful a desperate measure against starvation. My own portion was another gruel, bland and unsatisfying.
My biggest challenge was reconciling my inner adult with my outer infant. Every instinct screamed for control, for action. My mind raced, analyzing, plotting, searching for an exit, a leverage point. But my body could only cry, suckle, or sleep. The frustration was a constant, dull ache beneath the surface of my consciousness. I tried to focus my will, recalling the Arcana, but there was nothing. No hum, no connection. The aether, if it existed here, was beyond my reach, or perhaps, it was merely a construct of the vanished illusion. This world operated on different laws, harsher, more absolute.
I listened to the hushed conversations among the hovel's inhabitants. They spoke of the Crown's ever-increasing taxes, the dwindling harvests, and the unforgiving laws. They spoke of the "Holy Temples of Montala," the source of moral guidance and, implicitly, the Prince's power. It was clear that the religion was not a personal faith but a rigid, dogmatic system of control, used to justify the hardship and demand obedience. "The Divine Will," they would sigh, resigned. My Deistic leanings, once a source of philosophical comfort, now seemed hopelessly naive. This was not a universe set in motion by a non-intervening God; it was a brutal, hands-on oppression, justified by a corrupted creed.
As the cold night deepened, Mara finally slumped back onto the straw, exhaustion claiming her. She pulled me close, her body a source of meager warmth. I could feel her despair, a palpable aura around her. I didn't return her touch, didn't offer comfort. My cold detachment, born from the System's betrayal, was already hardening. There was no room for sentimentality, only survival. And to survive, I needed to learn, to adapt, to find a way to navigate this bleak, unyielding world that was far more real, and far more dangerous, than any illusion. My life as Elias had truly begun.