Chapter 1 - The Purge

Ystal wished he was a lucky child, being the youngest of five siblings. Yet, although large families were a blessing in those parts, he was frowned upon.

The first thing everyone noticed was his build: slender and graceful, totally opposite to the massive and sturdy one of any other inhabitant. Subsequently, the people focused on his hair - a dark brown, as of burnt wood - and finally on his complexion, almost pale when compared with that of others.

His neighbors, in particular, never spared insulting him. They took a sadistic pleasure in playing tricks on him, which often ended with the tears of the victim.

Precisely because of his constitution and character, his father refused to take him hunting with him, leaving him in the care of his mother and sisters. He had therefore learned to cook and sew rather than fight and split wood. This put him at a greater disadvantage during the Purge: the thought of being helpless in the face of such violence terrified him, and often this caused trouble for his family. The soldiers had never appreciated tears, and they were as good as hounds at sniffing the smell of fear.

He remembered perfectly the first time he had felt that feeling of endless terror: he was only four years old when it happened, yet the memory was as vivid and vivid as a burning flame on a starless evening.

As per tradition, the King's soldiers had come to the village to "recruit" young men and young girls; at the time, Ystal was unaware of the inauspicious and painful fate of both sides, and merely observed the harrowing scenes hidden behind his mother's skirt.

That year, however, his older sister turned fifteen and - as an adult - would be part of the selection.

The new men and women had been made to line up in front of their home, showing themselves as pieces of precious silverware to be sold on the market.

A soldier - fat and balding - had turned in their direction, and had taken steps in the direction of the girl. He had scrutinized her for a long time, in silence, as if he wished to devour her soul.

Ystal had seen tears on his sister's face, but he didn't understand why; at the time he was still convinced that being chosen was a privilege, not a condemnation. 

"Sister, why are you crying?" he had therefore asked, tilting his head a little, stammering slightly.

The man, at that point, had turned towards him, with a movement of annoyance clearly visible in his eyes.

"How dare you say a word in front of a soldier of the King?" He screamed, making the baby wince. His tone of voice, high and deep, made many heads turn in their direction.

Ystal had tried to stammer a response, gripping his mother's robe tightly, trembling.

"Ah, you don't talk anymore, now?" The man - rejecting his fear - had taken a step in his direction, eager to pull off a sharp blow, for the simple sake of hurting someone weaker. Seeing that gesture, however, his sister got in the way, taking one, two, three punches.

Nobody, at that moment, had moved. Neither the father, nor the brothers, nor even the fellow villagers.

His sister had been taken away, dragged by her hair, her face red and streaked with tears. On her lips, frozen with pain, the prayer to leave her brother alone.

That same evening, after the Purge, his father had taken him aside and, after having reserved the blows that had previously been assigned to his sister, had sent him to bed without dinner.

That night, Ystal hadn't been able to sleep, haunted by his sister's frightened gaze and the soldier's angry look.

From that day on, for the next few years, he had stopped attending the Purge. The firstborn son had been taken away two years later when he was six. The remaining brothers, however, had found the same fate during the subsequent Purges, leaving him totally alone at the age of nine.

No one had ever returned, and he had never heard of anyone since. They had simply disappeared, as if they had never existed.

Ystal wondered if this was the case for every village, but he couldn't find an answer. The outsiders did not have the right to education, as was the case with the young people of the capital. It was one of the few things he knew about the outside world, but it wasn't quite clear to him how he knew that truth.

"One day they will come for 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.