--Medieval Era--
Winter was coming.
The cold wind swept across the plains, carrying with it the scent of snow. The trees surrounding our little village had already begun to lose their leaves, leaving behind only dry branches that cracked whenever the wind blew past.
I tightened the old rope around the bundle of firewood on my back and let out a small sigh.
"I'm still short..."
At seven years old, carrying firewood was harder than it looked.
Father used to do this every winter. He would always return with enough wood to keep our house warm until spring.
But Father had died two years ago.
He was drafted into the Empire's army to fight against the rebels. A month later, all we received was his broken sword and a letter praising his bravery.
Bravery didn't keep us warm.
Bravery didn't feed us.
Ever since then, I had become the man of the house.
