Another World

Morning

You wake up before dawn, as you do every day. You can smell your mother's cooking in the small kitchen area of the little stone building that you, your mother, and your father call home. It is a modest place as far as the residents of this city are concerned and it has only a few comforts. Of the finer things in life, you know that they exist and that they are not meant for someone like you, but that's about it.

You walk from the bedroom to the kitchen and see your father discussing something in low tones with your mother. The expressions on their faces are very serious, but not quite grim. Whatever they're talking about is important and private or at the very least, should not be overheard by the town's guards and overseers.

Upon seeing you, your father gives you a faint smile. Your mother is startled, having been too deeply interested in the conversation to have heard your footsteps, but she offers you a larger and reassuring smile. "Good morning, my son."

"Good morning, Father. Good morning, Mother." You take your seat at the side of the kitchen table and your father takes his seat at the head. You feel something is different about today, though you're not sure what. Glancing around the room, you see your mother fussing over the oven as the bread in it finishes baking. Your eyes fall on the cupboard only a couple feet away from it.

Inside that cupboard, hidden in the very back, is a small bag with a large book in it. It is a journal that belonged to your grandparents. In it is a large collection of knowledge about the world and about the history of the world. It also has several personal accounts from your ancestors and stories they've told which date back over a thousand years. It is the only book you have ever read.

Your father frowns at you as you walk towards the cupboard. He knows that you love reading the pages of the journal, but you are not allowed to look at them during the day, the queen's lap dogs might see you. You and your family would probably be executed for possessing a book. "It is time for breakfast, my son." He murmurs as a gentle but firm warning.

"Yes, Father. I'm sorry, my mind was ... elsewhere," you reply respectfully, settling back into your seat and chewing on the bread that your mother places in front of you. She kisses your forehead, before sitting down at her own chair.

"Idle thoughts are not meant for work hours," your father responds in a practiced tone. "It is better to clear your mind so that you will be at your best when serving Our Great Lady." You keep the urge to complain at how unlike your father sounds right now, but it cannot be helped. If anyone loyal to the crown overheard him speaking openly about his real feelings towards the magical monarch, you'd be an orphan now.

The three of you finish your limited meal in silence and then leave the table to collect your farming tools. You know that the three of you must leave for the fields before sunrise.