I yawn. "Stop being stupid. It was a dream."

But I feel a sense of doubt. It felt so real.

I push my spare bedroll off the bed in my haste to get ready, and I curse silently. I'm grateful for the warmth of my furs, because the early morning air is chill and damp.

I neatly make my bed, folding up my spare bedroll, then I put it in my pack, which is propped against my clothes chest. A few small pieces of paper are littered across the top: failed attempts at cartotography and poetry. Cartotography has always been a passion of mine, one which I've picked up only recently. I cross to the other side of the room, throwing a few extra logs on the fire and jumping back in my haste to escape the flurry of sparks that follows immediately afterwards.

"Hea!" I curse. This is probably one of the tamer ones I know. Some of the most filthy are fairly vile. That's what comes of knowing several sailors. Their language is usually fouler than that of a guard. I can happily swear with the best of them. Maybe it's due to the stress of their job? But, of course, I'd happily save those for Illanwé Dwûndarei, leader of the Council of Hastow. Or the Imperial Guards. Probably the Imperial Guards.

I pull my boots out from under my bed, then walk across to my chest and open it, rifling through the contents until I find a outfit that I find suitable: long woollen socks that are a charming shade of grey, black trousers that I have to roll up because they're too long for me, a linen shirt, olive-coloured jerkin, fingerless gloves and finally, my cloak, which I have to let out a few inches every year, so I'm not tripping over my own feet. All practical and versatile pieces of clothing, but a little more suited to subterfuge. I'm not one for open combat. I lack the raw power and stature needed for it, as I'm naturally quite a small person. Several winters of starving didn't necessarily help me there. Many of our number died, until we eventually plucked up the courage to steal. Stealing is a necessary thing for us to do - otherwise, we would have starved a long time ago.

I turn around, one hand on the door handle. Thankfully, my room backs onto the kitchen, so it's quite easy to scrounge some leftovers. I inhale deeply, smelling the aroma of herbs and fresh bread from the stone hearth. I cross over to the scrubbed oak table, reaching for the bread, when a ladle whacks my outstretched hand. "Hey!" I shout.

"Having fun raiding the kitchen, sleepyhead?" My best friend raises the ladle again, and I look around, the picture of innocence. "ME? What? I-I simply cannot... Well. You got me there, Callon."

"You'd better not, Ari. I'm not afraid to strike!"

I pretend that I'm about to throw an earthenware beaker at their head. "Callon!"

"Hey, Ari! I think that was a little... impatient. Are you going out?" I smile ruefully, one hand on the back of my neck. "Might go out, if the weather permits." I indicate the ashen sky. It's been like this for the last few days. Winter is fast-approaching.

If someone doesn't go hunting, there will be no stores for the winter. We'll starve to death in safety.

Winter isn't just the pretty snowflakes and snowbanks you can play in for hours. It's a brutal, malignant force that shrivels leaf and bud, sending life back into its hollow vestige of sanctuary. Game will begin to become scarce, and then we'll stand no chance.

Between that, and the ever-present threat of discovery, our options are limited. It's fight or suffer.

If we are discovered, we'll all be strung up at the gallows or left staring at the executioner's axe. Theft is the worst punishment to be convicted of. Treason is hardly better. Neither are entirely desirable fates. We all know the risk we take. The provincial garrison is always on the march, looking for an excuse to arrest anyone. Man, woman or child. It doesn't matter to them, ripping innocent families apart on the mere basis of 'treason', condemning many to their fate. But, those old enough to fight are conscripted into the 'peace-keeping' of subjugated territories, once they come of age.

Every boy and girl has to travel to the regional headquarters, to register their names, and then they are given a profession. You don't receive a choice.

Most go to Dunyn, or even Harrow. It's a good way to keep tabs on the population, or even to weed out potential rebels.

Only then are they allowed to wield, or wear, the symbols of their guild or profession. It's an identifier, if nothing else. Of course there are evidently apprentice wars between guilds, which normally ends up nasty. Most of Father's men are ex-apprentices, who felt that the rules were meant to be pushed.

Carpenters, tailors, minstrels, architects... heroes all in their attempts to resist the Council.

I don't have any guild. I consider myself one of the lucky few, able to forge my own path.

Those who don't wish to do that, though, or who have parents who serve in the army, are themselves forced to join up, when they come of age. Some start training even earlier, around the age of fourteen or even thirteen. Darrin, our usual watchman, is one of those.

As an orphan, I'm also safe from forced conscription. But in occupied territories, many have no choice but to send their children away. The threat of war could arise at any moment, or so the Council claims, so 'Best be prepared, for when the enemy comes knocking at our door.' , making the lives of most a living hell.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

You don't know when the Imperial Guards are going to pound your door down and sweep your child off with them. It's the dilemma that every parent faces.

"Be careful. You don't know what's out there. Patrols have doubled over the last few weeks. I've had a couple of close shaves myself. It's almost as if they're looking for something."

This is troubling news. If the Imperial Guards have found us, our downfall is imminent. My hand clenches tighter around the table. Then I'll lose the only home I've ever known. Still, it's a foolish idea to resist. But I can resist in my own way. "Thank you for the warning, Cal, but it's more important that we feed ourselves. I'm going out there." I move towards the bread again, but a warning glance from Callon stops me in my tracks.

"Ari? What are you up to now?" I shrug half-heartedly as my father descends the staircase behind me, weary irritation in his voice. He crosses the kitchen towards us, and I freeze, turning around, both hands held up. "Dad! Nothing to see here!" I say quickly, a nervous grin on my face. He only gives a wry chuckle in response, ruffling my hair. I flush. "Dad... How many times do I have to tell you to STOP embarassing me in front of my friends!"

"Ari, you're thinking of heading out there alone? Without any form of reinforcements? There are patrols roaming the forest, under the king's banner. If they see you, they're not going to hesitate to attack." he says this gravely, his voice sombre, but his voice still carries a little warmth.

"Since when have we been afraid of the king? Never." I say, my voice dripping with unmasked sarcasm. "That hoity-toity scrunt sits on a throne all day and delegates his dirty work to his attendants. No thought even has to go into it."

Cal chimes in. "No wonder they've never been able to find us. If those guards are as useless as the king, they'll have a hard time finding us!" I roll my eyes. "I agree, Cal. In all the years we've been here, they've never even found us. Why start fretting now?"

"Callon, don't give her ideas!" my father chides them, shaking his head disprovingly, but I can still see a glimmer in his eye.

"I'm not a child anymore, so can you stop treating me like one?" I clench my fists.

"Well, I was about to talk to you about that." A weary reply seems to tug itself free from tired shoulders.

"You've come of age, have you not? Do not take what I am about to bestow upon you lightly." I take a deep breath, steeling myself for whatever is to come next. Surely news can't be that dire?

But, am I not ready to face the world?

This thought has been polluting my mind for days, bringing fresh doubts and insecurities in its wake. The next leader of our people must be unassailable, stronger than even the mightiest oak, but still gentle like the willow, and care for the land and its bounty. Am I truly worthy to take that mantle? Have my seasons run short?

"My sister Klinn, one of the Wardens of Maldréa, would be proud of you. Gentle as a willow, but the most knowlegeable among them. But, I have decided to designate Callon as my sucessor.

You have far higher callings, Ariana, daughter of Theol. One might even compare you to Marien, son of Canlunn. A great man, but thrown into war beyond his own control. That is why I grant this ring to you. May it keep you true."

Klinn was a Warden of Maldréa? I'm shocked by this relevation. I thought that the Wardens of Maldréa were enshrined within legend.

I gingerly hold out my hand, palm held up the sky. I flinch inadvertently as he drops the ring into my hand. The weight of cool metal against my skin is almost enough to quell my thundering heartbeat. It's a relatively simple band, with no inlaid jewels, but there is a engraving on one side. In the dying light, I can't make it out entierly, but I can very faintly see a spire shooting into the sky. What entirely it means, I'm not sure.

Still, it's definitely made by an artisan of their craft.

Something feels as though it's locked into place; and it can't be undone. Holding up my hand to the sky, the dying light glancing off of it, I admire it. Undulating and infinite as the sea, yet seemingly limited. The pattern is not complete.

Was this ring not meant to be finished?

"Your mother gave this to me when she handed you into my care."

My mother? My parents did not abandon me out of spite?

"Well, can I just go already?" Punctuated by a rather peevish, self-satisfied look, I turn on my heel, inadvertently kicking up a clump of rushes as I go.

Then I turn to the threshold, a bubble of euphoria bursting within me. I'm going out there once again. Maybe for the last time, before winter truly sets in.

I turn back, seeing my only friend raise a hand in farewell.

"See you later, Cal!" I affirm their greeting, raising my own hand in response. I swiftly leave the hall, and I'm surprised when I notice that no-one is outside. Normally, by this time, everyone is outside in the courtyard, completing everyday tasks, such as feeding the animals, or making rush nets to catch fish in the weir we made. My soft footfalls are muted against the compressed earth, and the only sound I hear is that of the creaking gate. My footfalls quicken, as I open the gate to such an angle where I can slide it through.

After I've made my way through, I push on the gate, hoping to be able to close it for myself without assistance.

However, that doesn't quite happen.

I struggle to close the gate myself, my strained grunts belying my struggle. I ram it with my arm, trying to force it home.

No luck there.

"Need some help, Ari?" Callon appears on the watchtower, an impudent grin adorning their face, as they dangle precariously over the edge, laughing uproariously at my attempt to close the gates alone.

"Perhaps a little." Callon notices my mock scowl, and with an almost ferocious, frenzied burst of energy, swiftly descends the staircase. With an almost feral grace, they push the other segment of the gate closed. I heave against the heavy doors as we pull the gate home. I stagger back slightly once the task has been completed, my hands slick from the oil used on the hinges.

"Nice work!" I call. However, Callon's response is a little muffled. Probably due to the sheer thickness of the gate separating us.

"No problem, Ari!"

No-one would stand a chance of getting inside here, I think. The timbers have stood for years, and why would they falter now? I rap the gate, for luck, more than anything else.

"I'll be back for dinner!" Whilst I check my sling pouch is filled with sleek river pebbles, I scan the fringes of the forest.

Nothing. All appears to be well.

"One eye to the sky. And to the thorns and the brambles, too." I recite the saying in my head, a slight prickle of unease running through me. I set off finally, pulling up my hood against the wind.

Maybe I am setting out on a new path. Maybe I am not.

But, then again, every journey is an adventure in its own right.

"In teo, Ari. Te ména ď han."