The morning light was soft in those days. It spilled over the rolling hills and green fields like honey, warm and golden, kissing the land awake.
Right now, the world felt quiet to Igaris. No clash of armies, no ringing of blades, no scent of blood in the wind. Only the rustle of crops swaying under the gentle breeze and the faint clucking of hens from the coop by the fence.
He awoke to the creak of the old wooden door, sunlight slipping through its gaps. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, drifting from the small kitchen. His mother's voice followed soon after, warm and clear.
"Igaris, get up. The sun is already climbing. The fields will not tend themselves."
He stretched, groaning slightly as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His bed was simple, a straw mattress with a quilt patched in different colors. The walls of his room were bare except for a few shelves holding small wooden carvings he had made as a boy, the kind of toys a farmer's son would treasure.
