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Serra did not move. “You have the power to kill us all,” she said calmly. “But you do not have the strength to make us hate you.”
Serra studied the olive tree. Its roots had split a boulder over centuries—not through force, but through persistent, quiet pressure. “No,” she said. “We will not flee. And we will not fight his army.”
By sunset, Vultur’s army had dissolved. The king fled north alone, and his fortress fell within a week—not to siege engines, but to servants who simply opened the gates.
One autumn, the river failed entirely. The north’s wells went dry. Vultur saw only one solution: invade the south, seize its springs, and enslave its people. “Power is a blade,” he declared. “It takes what it needs.”
