felt everything very deeply, was always
caught up in some storm of emotions, no matter how hard he tried otherwise.
Alec could not always control his passions, and despite himself was often
brooding. He had been told quite often that he took life too seriously, that he
should lighten up; but for him, life was a hard, serious affair, and he simply
did not know how.
Ashton, on the other hand, was calm,
levelheaded, and happy, despite his position in life. He was also a fine
blacksmith, like their father, and he was now single-handedly, especially since
their father’s malady, providing for their family. If Ashton, his best friend
and companion, were taken away, Alec would be crushed; not only would he be sad
to see him go, but most of all, he knew that life as a draftee would lead to Ashton’s
death. With Ashton’s club foot, he could never survive a life as a soldier. It
would be cruel and unjust for Pandesia to take away a lame boy—but Alec had
heard stories, and he hadn’t much faith in their mercy. He had a sinking
feeling that today could be the last day his brother lived at home.
They were not a rich family and did not
live in a rich village. Their home was simple enough, a small, single-story
cottage with a forge attached, in the middle of the province of Soli, a day’s
ride north of the capital and a day’s ride south of Whitewood. It was a
landlocked, peaceful place of rolling countryside, far from most things, and
just how they wanted it. They had just enough bread to get through each day, no
more, no less. And that was all they wished for. They used their skills with
their hammers to bring iron to market, and it was just enough to provide them
what they needed.
Alec did not wish for much—but he did
crave justice. He shuddered at the thought of his brother being snatched away
to serve Pandesia, at how unjust it was. He had heard too many tales of what it
was like to be drafted, to serve guard duty at The Flames that burned all day
and all night, protecting their kingdom from the trolls. But the slaves who
manned The Flames, Alec had heard, were hard men, slaves from across the world,
draftees, criminals, and the worst of the Pandesian soldiers. The greatest
danger at The Flames, Alec had heard, was not the trolls, but your fellow
soldiers standing guard duty with you. Ashton would not be able to protect
himself. He was a fine blacksmith, but not a fighter.
“Alec!”
His mother’s shrill tone cut through the
air, rising even over the sound of his hammering.
Alec put down his hammer, breathing
hard, not realizing how much he had worked himself up, and wiped his forehead
with the back of his hand. He looked over to see his mother sticking her head
disapprovingly through the door frame.
“I have been calling for ten minutes
now!” she said harshly. “Dinner’s past ready! We haven’t much time before they
arrive. We are all waiting for you. Come in at once!”
Alec, snapped out of his reverie, laid
down the hammer, rose reluctantly, and weaved his way through the cramped
workshop. He could no longer prolong the inevitable.
Alec stepped back into their cottage,
through the open doorway, past his waiting mother, and he looked at their
dinner table, set with their finest, which wasn’t much. It was a simple slab of
wood and four wooden chairs, and one silver goblet had been placed in its
center by his mother, the only nice thing the family owned. Around it, looking
up at him, waiting, sat his brother and father, bowls of stew before them.
Ashton was tall and thin and bore the
dark features of their father, while their father, beside him, was a large man,
twice as wide as Alec, with a growing belly, a low brow, thick eyebrows, and
the callused hands of a blacksmith. Neither resembled Alec, who had always been
told, with his unruly, wavy hair and flashing green eyes, that he looked like
his mother.
Ashton looked at them and he saw
immediately the fear in his brother’s face, the anxiety in their
caught up in some storm of emotions, no matter how hard he tried otherwise.
Alec could not always control his passions, and despite himself was often
brooding. He had been told quite often that he took life too seriously, that he
should lighten up; but for him, life was a hard, serious affair, and he simply
did not know how.
Ashton, on the other hand, was calm,
levelheaded, and happy, despite his position in life. He was also a fine
blacksmith, like their father, and he was now single-handedly, especially since
their father’s malady, providing for their family. If Ashton, his best friend
and companion, were taken away, Alec would be crushed; not only would he be sad
to see him go, but most of all, he knew that life as a draftee would lead to Ashton’s
death. With Ashton’s club foot, he could never survive a life as a soldier. It
would be cruel and unjust for Pandesia to take away a lame boy—but Alec had
heard stories, and he hadn’t much faith in their mercy. He had a sinking
feeling that today could be the last day his brother lived at home.
They were not a rich family and did not
live in a rich village. Their home was simple enough, a small, single-story
cottage with a forge attached, in the middle of the province of Soli, a day’s
ride north of the capital and a day’s ride south of Whitewood. It was a
landlocked, peaceful place of rolling countryside, far from most things, and
just how they wanted it. They had just enough bread to get through each day, no
more, no less. And that was all they wished for. They used their skills with
their hammers to bring iron to market, and it was just enough to provide them
what they needed.
Alec did not wish for much—but he did
crave justice. He shuddered at the thought of his brother being snatched away
to serve Pandesia, at how unjust it was. He had heard too many tales of what it
was like to be drafted, to serve guard duty at The Flames that burned all day
and all night, protecting their kingdom from the trolls. But the slaves who
manned The Flames, Alec had heard, were hard men, slaves from across the world,
draftees, criminals, and the worst of the Pandesian soldiers. The greatest
danger at The Flames, Alec had heard, was not the trolls, but your fellow
soldiers standing guard duty with you. Ashton would not be able to protect
himself. He was a fine blacksmith, but not a fighter.
“Alec!”
His mother’s shrill tone cut through the
air, rising even over the sound of his hammering.
Alec put down his hammer, breathing
hard, not realizing how much he had worked himself up, and wiped his forehead
with the back of his hand. He looked over to see his mother sticking her head
disapprovingly through the door frame.
“I have been calling for ten minutes
now!” she said harshly. “Dinner’s past ready! We haven’t much time before they
arrive. We are all waiting for you. Come in at once!”
Alec, snapped out of his reverie, laid
down the hammer, rose reluctantly, and weaved his way through the cramped
workshop. He could no longer prolong the inevitable.
Alec stepped back into their cottage,
through the open doorway, past his waiting mother, and he looked at their
dinner table, set with their finest, which wasn’t much. It was a simple slab of
wood and four wooden chairs, and one silver goblet had been placed in its
center by his mother, the only nice thing the family owned. Around it, looking
up at him, waiting, sat his brother and father, bowls of stew before them.
Ashton was tall and thin and bore the
dark features of their father, while their father, beside him, was a large man,
twice as wide as Alec, with a growing belly, a low brow, thick eyebrows, and
the callused hands of a blacksmith. Neither resembled Alec, who had always been
told, with his unruly, wavy hair and flashing green eyes, that he looked like
his mother.
Ashton looked at them and he saw
immediately the fear in his brother’s face, the anxiety in their
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