The village square was a picture of weariness. The faces of the villagers were hollow, marked by hunger and endless toil. Once-strong bodies now stooped, drained of their vitality. The sharp scent of desperation filled the air, mingling with the cries of children that echoed through the square. Their wails, though frequent, seemed like the only sound of life in a place that felt increasingly lifeless.

  Kyle trudged through the mud, each step heavy with the burden of his misfortune. His coat, now tattered and thin, clung to his gaunt frame, offering little protection against the biting wind. He kept his head down, avoiding the gazes of others, for his own face mirrored the same hopelessness he saw around him. No words needed to be exchanged—everyone understood the silent despair that held them in its grip.

  At the centre of the square stood the tax collector’s office, a cold stone building that seemed to loom over the village, its presence a reminder of their subjugation. Inside, the air was thick with dust and ink, the weight of forgotten lives pressing down on the shelves of ledgers. Behind a large desk, the tax collector sat, a man whose face betrayed no emotion as he scribbled numbers into the book, unaffected by the suffering he was part of.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “You owe the crown,” the collector said, his voice devoid of warmth. “One quarter of your remaining crop, and a fine for overdue taxes.”

  Kyle felt his stomach tighten at the words. The little that remained of his harvest—barely enough to feed his family—was now demanded by the crown. His heart sank, and for a moment, he could not speak. The words stuck in his throat, but when he finally managed to whisper, it was almost a plea. “You cannot take what I no longer have.”

  The collector glanced up, his expression as unfeeling as stone. “The crown’s claim is greater than any man’s loss.”