I make my way along the slope where bushes grow sparser, clinging to thorny branches, and then my gaze falls into the distance—where hills merge with the crimson sky. There stand knights. Not ours. Foreign.
Their armor doesn't shine—it absorbs light, becoming dull like the scales of an ancient lizard. The coats of arms on shields unfamiliar, and even their horses are more pedigreed than ours. Kriverians, no doubt. They move strangely—not in triumphant march, not in the sneaking gait of bandits. They flow down the slope like dark water, silently and inexorably. Not separate people, but a single multi-jointed creature controlled by another's will.
Curiosity burns stronger than fear. Could the prince be coming? Or has the king himself decided to visit our humble domains? I so want to see a person from another culture—how he breathes, speaks, carries himself. Studying foreign peoples, you start to better understand your own. It's like looking in a crooked mirror—the reflection comes out more honest. Foreign words, like litmus paper, show the true color of your convictions.
I've always thought Kriver is a great country. There live people ready to die for the honor and glory of the homeland. Sounds beautiful, doesn't it? Only in doing so, they destroy others' lives. Many others' lives. And here arises the question: can you consider majestic that which is built on bones?
It seems to me true greatness is when you conquer countries with your culture, ideas, example. When they come to you not out of fear, but respect. The word is always stronger than the sword—this truth is as old as the world. Still, to protect your land, you need to develop an army. Not everyone in this world is ready to listen to beautiful speeches. Some understand only the language of force.
Running down the mountain is dangerous—every stone tries to trip you up, every branch to lash your face. But my legs carry me down on their own, to the castle, our stone nanny—eternally frowning, but reliable.