-One day, not far away, they will come to take me too.-
These were the first words he spoke on the day of his tenth year, abruptly awakening from a sleep made of painful memories and nightmares. He had heard his sister's cry, the cry of pain at the first punch, his own horror. He would have wanted silence, to get rid of those sensations, but around him the world knew no respite.
Outside the sun had not yet fully risen, but the first men working in the distance could already be heard.
In those parts, it was necessary to produce at all times, in order to hope to survive the winter; from the Capital the carts with the provisions never arrived, despite the promises that were said to have been advanced by the New King.
He ran a hand lazily over his face, turning uselessly over in bed.
They had learned of the death of the twenty-second King only months after the actual event and at the same time the coronation of the twenty-third had arrived. It was rumored that he was young and inexperienced, but no one was sure.
Ystal shook his head, dismissing those thoughts.
He sighed heavily, joining his mother in the room immediately opposite the bedroom, watching her busy preparing breakfast. She was a beautiful woman, still in her prime - she would have seen the thirty-fifth winter just that year - and yet, since the last Purge, she seemed to have become a frail and needy old woman.
Ystal hurried to join her, gently placing a hand on her back to support her.
"Sit down, my little one. It's time to have breakfast" she urged him, without even looking at his face.
The child obeyed, after only a moment's hesitation. Taking his seat, he stopped to observe the woman.
The olive skin - characteristic of every person present in the Kingdom - highlighted the expression lines, and the eyes of a pale blue; her light brown hair was long to the back, held together in a thick braid.
"Where is dad?" Ystal asked.
The woman stopped putting a slice of bread and cheese on a plate, placing it on the table, pointing to the door with her eyes.
"He came out early this morning. He seemed in a hurry. "
"Has he already gone to work too?"
His mother's nod immediately silenced him.
"It is probable. Now that he is alone, he has to work twice as much ..." the woman added, with a sad expression.
Ystal didn't answer, deep in thought.
If the man had already gone to the forest to cut wood and look for game, it meant only one thing: it would be a hard, lean period.
"Another famine?" he ventured then, uncertainly nibbling his lower lip. He was not convinced of the motivation given by his mother.
"I don't know, my son," she just said, sitting down opposite Ystal, with only a cup of milk.
At that sight, he frowned.
"Mom, you must eat properly too," he retorted, dividing the piece of bread he had been given in half.
The mother smiled softly, refusing with a wave of her hand. It was the first smile he'd seen them give in weeks.
"I'm not hungry. Eat yourself, you are too thin. "
Ystal let out a low sigh, frowning but not replying.
He broke off a piece of bread, bringing it to his lips, starting to eat slowly. It tasted the same as ever.
Seeing him absorbed in something unpleasant, his mother stood up, nodding at the door.
"Why don't you go to the square? There is a rumor that there is a minstrel ... You know, one of those guys who go around singing stories, " she said.
"A minstrel?" Ystal echoed, confused, he had never seen one, but his father told of when - just before he was born - one had arrived.
The woman nodded.
"I think you have to meet him," she urged again.
At that insistence, the child did not have it repeated further. He quickly finished his breakfast and, kissing the woman's cheek, ran out of the house, towards the square.
The mother watched the door close silently, without moving.
"Forgive me, my son ... I couldn't do anything else," she whispered, wiping away a single tear.