The Light of Praxis (Idk a title yet)

It's the beginning of a story I wrote. Idk I just thought I'd go at it and upload it here for feedback. PLEASE tell me if there's anything you like/dislike or critiques.

The ache in his stomach gnawed away at Wes Pruitt’s consciousness. He slowly sat up in his bed, his mind swirling around in a deep fog that had set over his entire mind since the week before. The famine had been going on for only a week and a half, and Wes was already feeling the side effects. He groped in the air, trying to reach his glasses on his bedside table. They had spiderwebs running through them, cracked beyond repair in multiple places. But it’s not like he or his parents had the funds to repair them. As he put them on, the fog crept back a bit, still in his mind, but at least the forefront was clear. The pale morning light shone through the cracks of the boarded-up window, still broken where a ball had hit it years prior. Wes’s room was about as neat as it could be with little upkeep. He did not mind cleaning; it was just that, with all the chores he did around the farm, he had little time to do so. Although recently he definitely saw the difference with the attainment of most of their crops by Praxis soldiers and the devastating famine they were in, on top of that, Wes had very little to do besides sit with his thoughts and hunger. The light of dawn still slowly filtered in as he pulled on his normal get-up. He owned exactly three shirts and four pairs of pants, all devoid of color, with tones of brown, white, and grey. The tailors didn’t exactly have fashion in mind when making them, but they worked so Wes was content. He didn’t have a desk, but his parents did want him to keep at least a base level of education. He owned exactly one book, a simple, quite thick book on the foundations of education for anyone living in Praxis. His book was simply named “Praxis’s foundations of learning.” A staple in rural households. The book was older than him, a hand-me-down from his father's father. Who bought it whilst in the capital, Thryndor? He gripped the waistband of his pants, pulling them up and running the usual string through them to tie. After finishing this, he took the first shirt he saw in his closet out of the three, a white long-sleeve shirt muddied almost beyond recognition.  As he pulled it over his head and pushed his arms through the hole, the cuff of his shirt rode up his forearm, pressing tightly against it.  He simply yawned at the cool air of early Cindral blowing in. A small shiver crept up Wes’s spine, but he simply yawned, shook it off, and crept downstairs. The liveliness had long faded from the atmosphere of Wes’s house, but that was a common denominator between most houses around this time of year, with the leaves changing colors like magic and the last of the harvest being gathered. Cyndral was really just a warning of the upcoming harsh Frigus. Wes honestly didn’t think he’d be making it through that one. This was his last day at home. He planned on venturing out to the nearest city, Korvess. He didn’t really have a plan after that, and he didn’t even know if he’d make it that far. But he had to try; that was his parents’ only wish. To leave, to survive. As Wes pulled back the one working blind in the house, stepping over pots and pans in a ransacked kitchen. The handiwork of Wes after the first week of no food. He looked out to see the two piles of dirt in the backyard. Wes had dug it with his own two hands exactly how they requested, right next to each other. Tears clung to Wes’s eyelids, refusing to let go. 

At that moment, he remembered his dad's solemn words,  "Son, don’t shed tears for the first day’s loss. In all sixteen years, the only lesson I could hope to teach you is this: giving up is never an option. Failure may come, and it may sting, but even that is no excuse to surrender. Keep moving forward, always. Your mother and I… we don’t have much time left, but our lives will endure through yours. Survive. Endure. Live, and make a life worth remembering.” 

With that, Wes took his first tentative step outside, and one more came after, then more and more. The hunger still rang in his stomach like a creature eating him from the inside out, but he must live on. There is no option to die, give up, or fail. As Wes made it to the road, he lay down for a second. He knew there was no way that he could make the walk to Korvess. He could barely walk, let alone walk the 5 days to Korvess. He wouldn’t give up, so his only strategy was to wait and beg. Soon enough, the low rumbling of a carriage started. At that moment, Wes thought there was no more beautiful sound than that of the hooves of a horse clopping. As they drew nearer, he got to his knees.

“Stop!” Wes mustered all his remaining strength to say that one word. “Please, take me to Korvess…” As he said this, the fog came rushing back in, clouding up his vision. He tried blinking and tried to move his glasses back up, but his hands moved in slow motion. He saw a dark humanoid figure get out of the carriage, then it all turned black.

The slow and methodical trotting of horses slowly bled into Wes’s dreams, the gnawing feeling came back, and the fog slowly crept back again. His head rang, feeling the cold, hard wood of the carriage as it bumped and turned. 

“Hello, Sonny, you up now?” A voice said. Wes tried to grasp at the strings of reality, trying to figure out where he was. He slowly sat up as his head cleared, and the memories slowly flooded back. The carriage, the begging, the figure.

“Wh-Who are you?” Wes managed to mutter, slowly crawling to the back of the carriage, ready to leap at any time.

“Well, my name's Mr. Caudwell,” Mr. Caudwell said, “ Although the real question is who you are. You look deathly pale, son. When was the last time you had anything to eat? Too many kids are going without food right now. You're lucky I found you when I did. A few more days, and you might not even have been able to say your destination,” The man said happily.

“My name's Wes, Wes Pruitt,” Wes muttered, still creeping towards the back. As the midday light shone on the man's face, Wes could make out his details. He was getting on in years with a kind face, but in that moment, a grimace was painted across it.

“I’m so very sorry, son. I heard about the Pruitts just a couple of days ago. I personally knew them; they were great people, you should be proud to be their son.” He said with genuine compassion, and then tossed back a simple apple. His pupils dilated, the saliva in Wes’s mouth rushing back for the first time in weeks. He leapt towards it, eating it in its entirety, core and all. The juice slowly dribbled down his chin as he mercilessly licked it up like a wild animal wholly uncivilized, and with that, Mr. Caudwell just chuckled. It was the best thing Wes had ever tasted. The gnawing dissipated, just a little bit. The taste filled every part of his body, and he felt more satisfied than he had in ages.

“Why’d you help me, Mr. Caudwell?” Wes asked tentatively,

“Oh, that's an easy one, sonny. Mrs. Caudwell would never forgive me if I left a starving child on the side of the road like that.” He chuckled again, “We may not have much, but that won’t stop us from giving to those with less.”

Wes smiled for the first time in what seemed like months. “Thank you, this means more than you know.”

“Sonny! Look over the hill, see that smoke, that is Korvess.” 

Wes pushed his glasses up and everything came into view. There was a looming cloud of smoke over the horizon, drifting upwards towards the sun. As they came closer, a tower came into view, then another, then another. Wes’s eyes kept getting bigger.

“This is Korvess, the industrial hub of Praxis.” Mr. Caudwell said,

“Wow, what are those buildings? I’ve never seen anything like it,” Wes said, his eyes fixed on the cascading towers and factories. “Everyone there must have stacks and stacks of coppers.”

Old man Caudwell just chuckled again, “Sonny, you should really think bigger, the rich ones here have stacks and stacks of Gold coins.” 

Wes snapped back, “What! I’ve never even seen a Gold one!”

“Only the peasants in this city use coppers, sonny.”

Wes was at a loss for words, not even knowing what to say, as they came down the hill towards the entrance. 

“Sonny, you need to duck down now. They're not letting anyone in except citizens and merchants right now because of the famine. If you want in, you have to hide.” As the cart sidled up to the gate, two guards crossed their spears.

“State your name and purpose, traveler!” The left guard said. He was in full plate mail that rustled every time he moved his helmet, warping his voice.

“My name is Reginald Caudwell. I am a simple merchant with wares I would like to sell here.”

“Step away from the cart, sir.” The right guard said he was dressed similarly to the first guard, yet had a faded red Praxis sun insignia on his chestplate, most likely the captain.

“Oh, is this really necessary?” Mr. Caudwell said a slight bit of nerve was creeping into his voice.

“It is just protocol, sir. If you have nothing to hide, there should be no need to be nervous.” The right guard said while gesturing to the other one. The metal shifted, and Wes could hear it getting closer. He said one last prayer before Mr. Caudwell yelled out, “Wait! I have valuable cargo in there that can’t come in contact with sunlight, you see.” Wes couldn’t see anything as he ducked farther down to avoid getting caught. “Does this work as a routine check?” Wes could hear what he could only assume to be metal coins clinking and a pouch being poured. It sounded like bronze coins clinking, so Wes knew it must be coppers. Would that be enough, though? He thought to himself. Old man Caudwell had said himself that only the peasants used coppers in this city, and no peasant could have such shiny metal armor.

“What am I even thinking! We already performed the check. Why would I do it twice?” The captain said. He gestured for the other guard to come back. Rap Rap, he knocked on the large wooden gate twice. Metal gears squealed and ropes strained as the gate slowly swung open, letting Wes into a new realm of possibility. With the moving of the cart, he snapped back to reality. Scared to look out, Wes slowly sank back into the depths of the cart bed, waiting for Mr. Caudwell to give the go-ahead. There were quite a few twists and turns before Mr. Caudwell finally spoke up, “Here he is.” Confusion flooded Wes’s mind, but he didn’t have any time to think about it before the tarp was lifted and he saw a gruff, large man looming over him. His lips cracked with teeth yellowed beyond repair from his days of smoking and drinking.

“Is this the only thing you got?”  The man hissed, his breath making Wes tighten his nose.

Mr. Caudwell faltered, “Well, yes, am I supposed to bring more? This is the only one I have. This isn’t the usual business I partake in.” 

The man chuckled a deep, gravelly chuckle from a worn-out throat. “It’ll be fine, but the cost isn’t much for only one.” 

“How little are we talking?” Mr Caudwell faltered again, obviously uncomfortable with the situation.

“Still base price, but since there's only one, then instead of 50 silver a head, think 35.”

“But the base price for a healthy male slave is upwards of 70 silver!” Mr Caudwell whispered.

“What was that?” The man knew what he was doing; he got super close to him, using his looming figure to impose. Mr. Caudwell simply shrank back, sighing a simple affirmation.

“Good, now here's the coin.” 

Wes, who was simply watching all of this play out in shock, watched the man pull out a bag of coins and sift through them, collecting  35 silver coins and pressing them into Mr. Caudwell's trembling hands.  “ I-I’m sorry, Sonny. Mrs. Caudwell is sick; there's nothing else I could’ve done. This was the only way. She’ll never have to know.” Mr. Caudwell turned away before Wes could answer. The coins clinked once in his shaking hand, then vanished into his coat pocket. He didn’t look back as he climbed out of the wagon. The other man’s shadow filled the gap he left. For a moment, Wes couldn’t even breathe. The air thickened with dust and smoke; his mouth tasted like the silver Mr. Caudwell had just left with. He stared after Caudwell, waiting for him to turn, to laugh, to say it was all a joke.

 He didn’t.

Boots scraped on the wagon boards. The slaver’s hand clamped around Wes’s arm, heavy, calloused, and smelling of tobacco and sweat.

“Up boy, time to make back what you cost.” Wes tried to resist pulling away, trying to escape. He was met with a strength he hadn’t felt before. The man's hand tightened, he just chuckled and once more said, “Get up, now, boy. I’m not gonna ask again.”

Wes slumped down, all energy gone. He felt cold metal rings surround and tear against his hands, latching them together. He watched the Sun of Praxis, a symbol of its strength, press against his skin as he tried to wiggle his hands free. The man only grunted, dragging a chain connected to the shackles and pulling Wes forward. Wes' thoughts were still swirling around, both good and bad feelings toward Mr. Caudwell still echoed the now hollow happiness, as well as the immense sadness in his voice when he left. As Wes looked up, he saw himself being walked through a bustling market with many different stalls. He saw children in a back alley pulling apart a small piece of bread, which he could only assume they stole. The smells of the city still attacked his nostrils; the odor of humans mixed with food, grease, smoke, and pain was overwhelming. The noise was just as bad; the constant talking and creaking of gears in the city was like an attack on Wes’s brain; he couldn't process it, any of it. The man grunted again, pulling on a chain attached to Wes’s cuffs. Wes walked forward once again, closing his eyes, trying to block everything out. Eventually, Wes walked far enough back to the outskirts of town. The road was still gravel, and the sound was still overwhelming. Wes saw a cart with oxen. Most people weren’t around, being nearer to the center of town. The man grunted and pointed to the cart where another 7 men were sitting there chained together. Every part of Wes screamed not to get into the carriage, but he knew that there was no way to escape, and he slowly crept up, stepping up and into it with one open spot on the bottom of the carriage left. He looked up and saw a man at the front of the carriage. This one was noticeably skinnier than the first man, covered in tattoos and greasy black hair. He had a huge tattoo of a hooded figure on his back. While shirtless, the figure seemed to be moving against a wall. Most likely a soulcaster, Wes thought. 

Just then, the city was silenced, and a blaring voice came over the speakers deceptively posted all around. “Silence, citizens, it is now 5 in the afternoon. Please be silent for the words of our guest, Mr. Tartenlov, a Rank II Binder.”  Then a new voice came, a cold, sanctimonious one. “Thank you so much. Now, some words of wisdom, remember this for our quote of the hour. The Enforcers are the defenders of Aurevian, our one true goddess, who has blessed them with abilities beyond mere mortals. She rules through them not to stand in their path.” 

“Thank you so much, Mr. Tartenlov. It is now 5 in the afternoon. Please resume work.” With that, the broadcast ended. What was that? Wes thought to himself. Where did the voice even come from? The tech from these cities astounded him, but he needed to move on. He knew about the Aurevian, the goddess who had apparently blessed the Patriarch, the leader of Praxis and the Enforcers, with divine power, choosing them as the leader and defenders of the country. Wes had never seen an Enforcer in person, but that man did not sound heavenly, nor did he sound powerful. Wes snapped back to reality as the cart started to move. He periodically heard small whimpers from children around him. He looked both to his left and right, trying to silence them before causing more trouble, but couldn’t pinpoint the origin. As the carriage picked up speed, they heard the noise of the city come back, but only for a little while as they moved onwards and out. 

Author's Note

Please don't feel the need to be nice if you give me feedback; I want the straight truth. I'm scared that too many of my friends sugarcoat when they give me feedback. Sorry for formatting or grammar errors.