Alaric walked slowly along the dusty, unkempt village road. The village, which should have been full of life, instead felt eerily quiet. In the distance, the sound of a bellowing cow echoed, and birds soared high in the clear blue sky. Yet, for Alaric, this day was no different from any other—filled with endless routines and unfinished tasks.

  Alaric was an ordinary young man, with brown eyes and short, messy black hair. His clothing was just as unremarkable—a simple tunic, its colors faded from years of wear. However, beneath his plain appearance lay an unshakable determination. A deep longing to one day build something greater, something better for his family.

  At his home, his father sat at the doorstep, holding a cup of tea that had long gone cold. His mother was busy inside, preparing lunch. Alaric could feel the weight of their exhaustion. Every day, his father toiled in the fields, yet their efforts were never enough. A better life always seemed just out of reach.

  Still, despite their humble existence, Alaric felt a sense of pride. He knew that if no one changed their fate, then he was the only one who could. If he could create something great, perhaps his family’s destiny would shift. Perhaps, one day, they too could enjoy the life of those in the grand cities—so distant, yet so perfect in appearance.

  ---

  A grand feast was to be held at the palace that night. Everyone in the village had heard the news, and while most of them could only dream of witnessing it from afar, the excitement was palpable. The nobles had announced the event with great spectacle, and the entire village was caught between anticipation and envy.

  A well-dressed servant walked through the village, handing out invitations in the form of elegant brochures. The papers depicted a scene of opulence—glimmering lights, lavish feasts, and grand festivities within the palace walls. Villagers stared at the brochures with curiosity, though to them, the palace was a world far beyond their reach.

  Among the crowd, one servant stopped in front of Alaric’s house. With a polite smile, he handed the brochure to Alaric’s father, who sat outside. A simple man, hardened by years of fieldwork, his father accepted the paper hesitantly. He unfolded it, and his expression instantly changed. His weathered, weary face suddenly appeared fragile.

  For a moment, Alaric’s father stared at the brochure, as if recalling a time when such celebrations were within his reach. A time when life had been a little better, when hopes had still been alive. But after a moment, he crushed the paper in his rough hands, crumpling it as if it were nothing more than a meaningless scrap.

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  “A feast…,” he muttered, his voice heavy with sorrow. “For whom? We are nothing here. There is no place for us in that world.”

  His face was etched with disappointment, and he tossed the shredded paper onto the ground, as if discarding a long-buried hope. From behind the door, Alaric watched in silence, feeling a weight settle in his chest. He saw his father—normally strong—now crumbling under the weight of reality.

  Hiding behind the wooden frame, Alaric struggled to contain his emotions. A storm of feelings raged within him—sorrow for his father’s crushed spirit and anger at a world that had no place for people like them. He felt as though he was on the wrong side of a life that should have been fairer.

  Memories surfaced—memories of how the nobility always treated these grand feasts as little more than a joke. How they mocked those who had failed—those who lacked wealth, those trapped in an endless cycle of hardship.

  “Look at them,” they would sneer. “They will never be here. Even dreaming of such a feast is beyond them.”

  Not all nobles were like that, of course. Some had earned their place through hard work. But too often, those who had failed were nothing more than a source of ridicule.

  It was a bitter truth that shadowed the village’s existence. To men like Alaric’s father, these celebrations only served as painful reminders of how distant and untouchable that world was.

  Alaric clenched his fists, swallowing the burning anger rising within him. Without thinking, he stepped outside.

  The night was cold, the wind cutting sharply against his skin. Maybe it was the harsh weather that pushed him forward, or maybe it was something else. Nothing could stop him from at least catching a glimpse of the grand celebration, even if he knew he wasn’t welcome.

  He hid behind a large tree near his home, watching as a crowd gathered outside the palace gates. Light spilled from within, illuminating the night with a golden glow, offering a glimpse of the grandeur inside. A stark contrast to the modest village behind him.

  “One day,” Alaric whispered to himself, “the world will see us. Not as mere peasants, but as people who can change their own fate.”

  He remained there, silently observing, absorbing every detail. Everything seemed distant—yet within reach, if only he could grasp it.

  Back in his small wooden bed, Alaric finally lay down, his mind restless. Visions of the feast, of his father’s sorrow, and of a future yet to come swirled in his thoughts.

  In the darkness of the night, he wished—wished for fortune to turn in his favor, wished for change. His tired body gave in at last, and as sleep took him, dreams carried him to another world—a world full of hope and possibilities.