I was just an ordinary child, born in a land that promised nothing but suffering. The village where I grew up stood fragile on the outskirts of the noble city—a place where power crushed humanity, and honor belonged only to those born of great names. We, the common folk, were dust beneath the polished shoes of the rulers. We were mocked, belittled, used to satisfy their insatiable greed. My family and I were no exception.
We lived in poverty so deep it left almost no room for hope. Our days passed with empty stomachs and bruised bodies. My father was forced to work until his bones nearly broke. My mother… was tortured for reasons that defied logic. All by the command of the noble king, who saw our lives as no more valuable than that of a stray dog.
Then one night, under a starless sky and with the guards' voices fading into drowsy murmurs, I left. Without a sound, without goodbye. I ran as far as I could—across hills, forests, and rivers—for one thing: freedom. I believed that if I got far enough, I would be safe—and they, my family, would be spared from the wrath of the nobles. But I was wrong. So terribly wrong.
That day, in a small tavern where I took refuge, I saw it:
A newspaper page bearing the news of their deaths—
My father, my mother, and my little sibling.