Song Of The Peasant Queen

Chapter 1

I am known as Mallory Valiquette, at least that is what I claimed to be thirteen years ago. I am seventeen years old, well, yesterday I was, and I am beyond the "coming of age" for teenagers. I have been going to school with the other children around here and trying to fit in properly. In our town within Freclech, women are not usually allowed to get an education. Yes, women have been given education in the past to become successful scholars, but it was still a rare occasion when something like that happened. I am one of the few teenagers in my town who is considered an orphan. I do not know much about my family or if they are even alive. They probably wouldn't want me anyway because we would still be together. I cannot blame them if they had chosen to abandon me. I am a greasy peasant girl who stands out in the crowd. My French accent doesn't help because a majority of the population in the south of Freclech is Roman.

I envy the other children because they have families to look after and take care of them. They spend all day making their families proud and hanging out with their friends. Then they are married off to beautiful, educated, high-class spouses while no one would look my way unless they threatened me. Every day I would ask myself, 'Why would anyone want me?' 'Did I say something that ticked them off?' 'Is it because I am not of Roman ancestry?' That is all I know about my family anyway. I found some old things in our attic and noticed they were in another language. I managed to have someone kind enough to help me locate where it was from since I'd never been to a different part of Freclech before and came to find out I was French. After finding out, I realized that was most likely why I was treated like trash by the other girls and some of the boys, they DO NOT take foreigners lightly over in the Roman part of Freclech unless you were a merchant. I would always try to get along with them by giving compliments and making friendly conversation, but that only resulted in them bashing me or chasing me after lessons. GOD! I hate it when they do that.

Since today was my birthday, I decided to make myself happy by having my favorite pastries with some fruit. I was upset when I realized I was out of blueberries, meaning I had to take my chances and go out. I always hated going outside even if it was necessary, I sighed, threw on my drapes, and tied my wool bag of coins around my waist. I grabbed my key and locked my door, throwing my hood over my head. Because it is a new season, tons of people from all three gates will be there, which means more faces to cover up mine. The trip to the market was graciously smooth until I walked up to the fruit stand. I noticed a little kid with scruffy short brown hair, big brown mischievous eyes, dirt-smudged all over his little round soft face, and his dingy robe was held tightly on him by a thick rope, staring at me with a stick in his hand. I noticed that little bugger in a second. He was Evan Pakala Xander, the eight-year-old brother of Kyril Otis Xander IV.

Their family was wealthy and had a reputation for getting what they wanted, especially Evan and Kyril. Kyril Otis Xander was a strong seventeen-year-old with a lot of fighting spirit. After all, his father Kyril Otis Xander III was planning on making him a gladiator, which was terrible because he loved making people feel like dirt, especially me. From the age of five, Kyril was put into boot camp, which was hell for all boys. You would have to fight your opponents to the death and surrender was never an option. Anything you did that was unsatisfactory to your mentors and trainers and it was either a severe beating or death. But being a gladiator, itself was no trip to the fields. They would not only have rigorous training, but they would have to go day and night with no rest. Battling sometimes the fiercest enemies, and it was either you won or died with honor. For some reason, death was a huge thing for these people. But being a soldier was also how you earned your citizenship over here in Greece. Which made it no surprise to anyone due to the diverse faces of people from who was once part of the working class. But with the war gods, Ares and Athena, by their side they kept going. Kyril is well known around here and not only because of his father's hand in politics and wealth, but mostly because of how he was notorious on the battlefield and in the arena. At the age of fourteen or fifteen Kyril went into his first battle and won with no fault. Every soldier who fought alongside the boy said he is not only strong but a complete monster on the battle grounds. Most would mistake him as the son of Zeus because of how much might he wielded. Kyril was not only a monster on the field but a genius in the war room, which in my opinion is too much for that psycho maniac.