Cæsar's childhood was relatively happy. He had a loving elder sister, honest and hardworking parents, and a simple but content life. His favorite pastime was fishing in the narrow streams beside the fields during the sweltering summer months while his parents and sister toiled under the sun. The fish he caught were small, no thicker than a thumb, but they were a rare and precious addition to the family's modest diet.
However, good days seldom last forever. At fourteen, Cæsar's world was shattered by a devastating drought that swept across Garrel Kingdom—a modest realm with limited resources. Three of its four provinces were plunged into crisis, facing acute shortages of food and water. In Iron Mine Town, located in Kyle Territory of Del Province, Cæsar's family was pushed to the brink of survival.
For over six weeks, the sky had withheld its rain. By mid-June, fields that should have been nearing harvest were barren and cracked. In better years, this would have been the season when Cæsar's parents took him to town to trade their modest produce and earn a few copper buc to sustain their household. His sister, Leah, would carry her handmade scarves and handkerchiefs—crafted from leftover linen—into town, hoping to sell them to passing merchants or adventurers.
The scarves and handkerchiefs, though rough and coarse, were durable and warm—qualities valued by frugal traders and adventurers. Leah's craftsmanship was meticulous, and during the typically chilly, rainy Junes, her goods would always sell well. In those days, young Cæsar's greatest joy was waiting for Leah's return at dusk, perched on a stone under the village's old maple tree. When he saw her blue headscarf and woven basket emerging from the distance, he would run to her with uncontainable excitement. Sometimes, Leah would playfully let him rummage through her basket or pockets, only to reveal a few golden candies in her outstretched hand. These small treasures made him giddy with happiness.
Leah was considered one of the beauties of Maple Leaf Village. By the time she was ten, suitors were already knocking on their door, hoping to secure an early betrothal. In their village, most girls married at fifteen, and by seventeen or eighteen, they were already mothers. Ten wasn't too young for an engagement, but every time someone came to propose, Cæsar would create such a scene—crying, shouting, and causing a commotion—that the proposal would inevitably fall through. Outsiders would leave with puzzled or judgmental looks, but Cæsar didn't care. In his young heart, these people were trying to take away his sister.
Their parents, Old Locke and Tia, shared their son's hesitation. While early marriages were common among farmers, they dreamed of something better for Leah. Perhaps she could marry into a wealthier family—a merchant's son or even someone from the town council. Leah was their pride, and they didn't want her to suffer the same hardships they had endured.
But no amount of love or planning could fend off the relentless cruelty of the drought. The crops withered under the unyielding sun, and Old Locke and Tia's hair turned gray from worry. At just thirty, they looked a decade older. Cæsar, who loved listening to the traveling bards' stories in the town square, suddenly understood a harsh truth: in a world where people rarely lived past fifty, his parents were already approaching old age.
Two weeks had passed since Cæsar had last tasted black bread—a coarse, hard loaf made from wheat husk and chaff, yet rich in nutrition. Even during lean years, his parents would save enough to give him and Leah one meal of black bread with potato soup each week. But this time, there was none. And Cæsar didn't ask why because Leah hadn't eaten in three weeks.
Despite his youth, Cæsar had a maturity beyond his years, shaped by the quiet resilience of his sister. Unlike their neighbor's son, little Tom, who wailed and complained from hunger, Cæsar remained silent, his eyes filled with understanding.
Their meals grew sparser with each passing day—from grain porridge to wild vegetable soup, and finally, to gnawing on tree roots. The family endured, but only just.
Eventually, Cæsar made a decision—he would join the army.
The night before he left, Cæsar tried to sneak away, but Leah caught him. She didn't stop him, nor did she scold him. Instead, she pulled him into a tearful embrace and whispered, "Come back alive, little brother."
Years later, Leah still remembered that night. As she sat alone, sewing by candlelight, a mix of sorrow and pride filled her heart.
"Please, let him come home safe…" she murmured to herself.
Life had improved slightly since then, but their parents, Old Locke and Tia, could never truly rest. Their only son was out there, somewhere on a distant battlefield, his fate unknown.
Leah often pondered her brother's future. If he returned, perhaps he could marry a girl from town—a merchant's daughter, maybe. But every time she thought of her brother walking away with another woman, her chest tightened.
Cæsar's letters always carried warmth. He'd ask her to buy herself scarves or dresses, but Leah rarely indulged. Food prices had soared, and even salt was now a luxury. She'd bought only two scarves over the years and had one new dress—made from fabric her mother had gifted her. She wore it only once, too afraid to ruin it.
Meanwhile, Old Locke and Tia lay awake in their modest bed. Old Locke's rough, calloused hand clasped Tia's, just as he had on their wedding night two decades ago.
"Tia," he said softly, breaking the silence. "The children will find their way. We've done our best."
Tia sighed and nodded. "You're right. All we can do now is wait."
The night deepened, and silence once again settled over their small home.
And somewhere, far away under a foreign sky, Cæsar marched on, carrying his family's hopes on his shoulders.