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I knew then, with grim intuition, that I did not have an illness my friends could cure. Kirah could sing down the moon and stars, and my siblings could cover me in hugs and spells and promises . . . and that undead child would still be there, lisping its cold, pure truth. You are alone.
“Dayo . . . ever since I was little, there’s always been this dread. This haunting thought that I’m doing something wrong. That I am wrong, that I’ll always be alone, that everyone will always leave me.
“Why doesn’t anyone care?” I blurted. “Why is everyone so at peace with how things have always been? Children are dead, for Am’s sake!
Their merchants were supposed to compete with each other, keeping prices low for the people. Then they realized they were stronger together. They united and made pacts to drive up the price of basic goods, like rice and palm oil. My people were driven to desperation.”
Nobles in Mewe and Biraslov practically enslave their poor, all to make a profit on wool and ice blocks.”
Why did the health of the empire, the lives of millions, have to depend on a tiny subset of wealthy people being kind?
