The day before had been terrible. The commotion caused by that soldier had shaken our family to its core. I could still hear my father’s defeated voice, see my mother’s tears, and worst of all, remember Elyra witnessing everything. I had spent the night lying awake, desperately trying to come up with a plan to escape our situation. But my ideas were nothing more than fantasy—the wild flailing of a mind too afraid to face reality.

Reality always strikes harder than any dream and today was no exception. My restless night left me drained, and once again, I skipped breakfast. Working in the field was taking a toll on my body. The scorching sun burned my skin, and the heavy humidity left me drenched in sweat. It was disgusting. I swung the scythe back and forth, cutting the wheat in hurried strokes. Right now, the quota was all that mattered.

“At this pace, we could have all the wheat cut in a few days,” I said, trying to sound optimistic.

“We just need to keep going, and we’ll be fine,” replied my father.

“Just remember, if you need to rest, even for a little while, you can. I’ll handle your part while.”

“Rest? We still have too much work ahead. It’s far too early to start thinking about that.”

“I’m just saying… you’re not as young as you used to be. I don’t want to have to send you to a retirement home just yet,” I joked, forcing a smile.

“Ha! Boy, I was harvesting wheat long before you were even born.”

The fact that we could still joke under the blazing sun, despite our hunger, our desperation, and the looming deadline, said a lot about my family. We were tough—like armor, forged through hardship. The strongest shield I knew. Or so I wanted to believe.

But it was hard not to notice how my father’s frail arms struggled to lift his scythe. We work at completely different paces now. His body was failing him, but his spirit remained unbroken.

“Let me get that one,” I said, stepping closer as he fumbled to cut a thicker stalk. He didn’t resist, just nodded silently and moved to another patch.

I tried not to let it bother me, but it did. A part of me wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all—how a man like him, who had given everything to his family, was now being ground down to nothing. Instead, I swallowed the anger and kept cutting.

“I brought water,” came my mother’s voice behind us. I turned to see her walking toward us, carrying a clay pitcher and a few wooden cups. She was dressed for work, though it was clear the outfit didn’t suit her. Her sleeves were rolled up, exposing pale arms that had never been meant for fieldwork.

“You didn’t have to come out here,” my father said, though his voice lacked conviction. He was glad to see her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to sit in the house while you two wear yourselves out. Besides, the field belongs to all of us.”

I took a cup of water and drank slowly, savoring it. My mother knelt beside the basket where we had piled the wheat, carefully tying the bundles together. She wasn’t used to this kind of work, but her hands moved with determination.

“Mother, where’s Elyra?”

“She’s inside, trying to solve one of those old puzzles we kept stored away.”

“Lucky her,” I muttered. My words came out before I could stop them. I didn’t want Elyra out here, baking under the sun like the rest of us—but I couldn’t help envying her freedom.

“You’ll get your turn to rest once you’re my age,” my father said, not looking up from his work. “For now, this is what growing up feels like.”

I gave a tired chuckle. “I didn’t think growing up meant feeling like a corpse.”

“Better a tired corpse than a hungry one,” he replied, the usual sharpness in his voice dulled by exhaustion.

My mother joined in. “It’s not as bad as you think. There’s a strange comfort in knowing you’re providing for the ones you love. Even if it leaves you sore and sunburned.”

I paused, wiping sweat from my brow. “And what if we can’t provide? What if no matter how much we work, it’s not enough?”

“You find a way,” my father said firmly, finally looking at me. “You’ll scrape and claw until you make it. That’s what parents do.”

His words lingered, and my gaze fell to the wheat in front of me. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” my mother said softly. “But it’s also worth it.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Before I could reply, a sharp metallic sound rang out. My stomach dropped. I turned just in time to see my father collapse to his knees, his scythe hitting the ground beside him.

“Dad!” I shouted, running to his side.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, but his shaking hands betrayed him. “Just need... just need a second.”

“No, you need to get inside,” I said, already glancing at my mother. “Now.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she crouched beside him, one arm under his shoulder as she tried to help him up. He wavered, barely able to stand.

“Can you walk?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“I can manage,” he mumbled.

“Take him,” I told my mother, trying to sound steady even as my heart pounded. “Get him out of the sun. I’ll finish this.”

She nodded, though the worry in her eyes mirrored my own. Together, they stumbled toward the house, leaving me alone in the field.

I gripped the scythe tighter. The sun felt hotter now. Heavier. But I couldn’t stop.

Not yet.

The words of my parents lingered in my mind long after they left. The field felt heavier without them—just me, the wheat, and the oppressive heat. I tried to keep working, but with each swing of the scythe, doubts crept in.

Maybe we wouldn’t make it. Maybe no matter how hard we tried, this field would never be enough.

I wiped my brow, my fingers trembling as they brushed against my damp skin. My father said I’d get my chance to rest someday. That hard work would pay off. But looking at him, bent and broken after years of toil, how could I believe that?

He had given everything—his body, his strength, his pride—and still, he couldn’t stop. Rest wasn’t a reward. It was a luxury. One we might never earn.

I stopped mid-swing, pressing the scythe into the dirt to steady myself. My chest felt tight, the weight of exhaustion and frustration pressing down harder than the heat. I wanted to scream. To throw the scythe and run.

Instead, I kept cutting.

Tears blurred my vision, but I let them fall. I didn’t have time to wipe them away.

How did it come to this? Dalmora wasn’t perfect, but it had been ours. A small, quiet place where families could live without fear. Where happiness didn’t come from wealth but from knowing you had enough.

But now?

Now, even that is gone.

And as the sun dipped lower, stretching the shadows across the field, I felt something shift inside me.

Anger.

Not my parents. Not at Elyra. Not even at the soldier who had beaten my father.

Anger at the world that allowed this to happen.

I gripped the scythe tighter and kept cutting.

The day felt endless. My arms ached, and the scythe dragged heavier with each swing. I had been cutting for hours, my thoughts circling back to my father’s collapse and the weight of the quota. The field stretched around me, golden and almost infinite, all I could see was how little we had harvested and how much more was left.

I tried to focus—one stalk at a time, one swing after another—but no matter how hard I pushed, I couldn't stop questioning myself. Would it ever be enough? Could we even make it through the winter?

Then I smelled it.

Smoke.

I straightened, wiping sweat from my forehead once again. The scent was faint but growing stronger, sharp and bitter.

No.

I spun around, my eyes darting across the field. The crops were fine—no fire. The house was untouched. But the smell lingered.

I dropped the scythe, the clang echoing louder than it should have, and took a few steps toward the edge of our property. That’s when I heard it—voices carried on the wind. Angry. Urgent.

My stomach twisted.

The Dastens.

I ran toward the line of trees that separated our farms, my boots kicking up dirt. The Dastens had always been good neighbors—farmers like us. Hardworking, kind people. Mr. Dasten often shared tools with my father, and his wife sent Elyra small treats whenever they had extra flour. They had two sons, both older than me, who had helped build the fences between our properties.

And now their house was burning.

I froze at the edge of the treeline.

Thick, black smoke poured from the roof. Flames crawled up the walls like hungry animals, devouring everything. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.

The shouting grew louder. Then I saw them.

Soldiers.

For one terrifying moment, I thought the war had reached us. But no—the uniforms weren’t foreign. They were ours.

The State Guard.

Why?

I ducked instinctively, pressing myself low against the ground. My pulse pounded so hard it hurt. The Dastens weren’t rebels. They weren’t criminals. They were just farmers—like us.

So why?

The quota.

Had they refused to pay? Fallen short?

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Panic clawed at my chest, bile rising in my throat. If the Dastens had been targeted, what stopped the Guard from coming for us next?

I wanted to move, to run to the house and stop them—or to run home and warn my family—but my legs wouldn’t budge.

All I could do was watch.

The flames roared louder as the roof collapsed, sending sparks into the air like dying stars. The soldiers moved methodically, as if they had done this before. One of them kicked over a water barrel, spilling its contents into the dirt.

A scream cut through the crackling fire, and my breath caught in my throat.

I couldn’t see who it was—one of the sons, maybe—but the sound was sharp and raw.

Then it stopped.

I felt something inside me crack.

This wasn’t just punishment. It was a warning.

And we were next.