"Of the several regions in the Iron Galve, Deepfarell has the only standing city, Hadrol, home to a military barrack two thousand men strong, and also where the Iron King resides.
Our small village, while not very important, is located northeast in the Deepfarell. Though backed by the Iron Mountains, a terrain that snuffs out life, we face Hadrol directly at the front.
Between us and Hadrol lie several villages, each responsible for tending to the acres of farmland spread across the region.
Within the region, there are numerous barracks and military checkpoints. Their main purpose is to patrol and ensure the farms, villagers, and farm produce are kept safe.
Law and order are strictly maintained in Deepfarell. So unless Hadrol has been overrun and the Iron King killed, there's no way a band of slavers would be marching into this village."
It was a long monologue, and when Barth was done, he let out a deep breath followed by a sigh, his attention fixed on Alexander, whose face had scrunched in thought.
Both Barth and Ma didn't want to discredit Alexander's words, considering how firmly he believed in them, but what he said was akin to someone claiming the sun wouldn't be in the sky if you stepped outside.
"What if Hadrol has somehow been overrun and the Iron King killed?" Alexander said slowly.
"I was just on my way to meet Goington. He came back from Laplort, a village rather close to Hadrol. I doubt he'd be back safe and sound if the region was overrun with barbarians and slavers."
"What if it hasn't happened yet? A swift attack could be launched on Hadrol… or better yet, what if the slavers sneak their way past the guards and make their way here?"
Initially, without understanding the nuances, Alexander had dismissed the scroll's warning and though his frequent nightmares had changed his stance, he still harbored some doubt, and it surprised him how much he now wanted Ma and Barth to believe him.
"That's extreme… but possible." Barth brought a hand to his chin. The old man looked up at the ceiling, then placed his hands on his waist and stretched backward with a pop.
"You realize we two are just the first obstacle you'll need to overcome if you want to convince this village of the approaching doom, right?"
"Yes."
"Alright then. Let's go."
"What do you mean 'let's go'? He hasn't eaten this morning!" Ma snapped, swinging her stick, this time hitting Barth on his left calf and sending him crumbling to the ground.
"Oh, my leg!"
"Honey!" Ma screamed in worry, rushing to her husband's side—like she wasn't the one who had sent him down in the first place.
It took a while, but eventually, Barth and I escaped Ma and stood before the next obstacle he had been referring to.
With a buffed body and average height, the man before us wore black pants and no shirt. He looked to be in his early forties.
Raising an axe above his head, he brought it down in a powerful arc. His two hands gripped the tool firmly, and under his direction, it split a log of wood in half with a single strike.
"That's quite the story," the man said, turning to face us. His chest was so well-built that putting armor over it would seem almost disrespectful.
"You believe him, Barth?"
"Yes," the old man replied without hesitation.
Running a hand over his greying head, the man with the axe turned to me. This was Notheim, the leader of our village. If we wanted any hope of preventing my nightmare from becoming reality, we needed his support.
"You always spoke against the supernatural. Yet here you are, trembling over an ill boy's nightmare. Are the years finally catching up with you, old man?"
"Notheim, you know the special circumstances surrounding Alexander," Barth argued.
"Yeah, he has a serious mental condition. Don't tell me you're taking that glaring possibility off the table."
Notheim's words made Barth pause, rubbing his forehead with a finger in frustration.
"Are you forgetting that he died and came back? Or do you doubt Ma's diagnosis?"
"Ma's skills are undeniable and undisputed—but the woman is getting old. No one else confirmed if he was truly dead."
Barth's expression hardened at those words, but Notheim raised his hands in surrender.
"Look, Barth, last night my children asked me how Alexander, who was dead, is now alive. I had to give them an answer.
And it isn't just me. The other villagers too… nobody dares to question Ma, but I'm sure the men have spoken to you.
The logical conclusion should be that Ma made a mistake—but no one dares to believe that. She holds a special place in the hearts of the villagers, especially the women and children.
So the only conclusion they accept is that your boy truly came back from the dead.
That might be fine for them, but not for me. Someone has to be the one thinking rationally here."
Notheim's words left Barth contemplative, and after staying quiet for so long, Alexander finally spoke.
"And what if I'm right? What if a band of slavers truly does come? Your villagers, your wife and children.
You do know what happens to slaves, don't you?"
"Using my fears to manipulate me? I'm not amused," Notheim snorted, though Alexander's words seemed to stiffen rather than soften him.
"What does it cost you to believe me?" Alexander pressed.
"My time. The villagers' time. And what would you have us do?"
"Raise an army."