Till. Plant. Water. Harvest. Till. Plant. Water. Harvest. Till. Plant. Water. Harvest.

  This was the time loop of every peasant farmer in the Empire of Dreams. This endless, draining, repetitive, back breaking, soul sucking repetition that would drive a man to madness if he consulted his better senses for a fraction of a second. Fortunately for the oh-so-noble nobles, this endless supply of hard labor dulled the minds of their worker ants as well as a night out at the tavern.

  In this oppressive mundanity, however, festered hope far beyond an ant’s station. Ironically, peasant dreams were a cardinal sin in the empire. And his lofty aspiratioms would be considered blasphemy at best and insanity at worst–all contained within the heart of a 15 year old farm boy dutifully plowing into the earth with a rusty hoe. On the surface, at least.

  “I hate this... I hate this... I hate this... I hate this...” He mumbled under his breath over and over again. With every swing of his tool, for every seed he planted, for every weed he pulled, for every crop he tended his soul seemed to erode a bit by bit as it roared for him to run away. For he had been afflicted with a deadly disease. Wanderlust. A thirst for freedom. Adventure. It was a most insidious one, known only to the one who carried its symptoms before it all burst out at once.

  This was no exaggeration, mind. When there were horrors outside of their docile farmlands that ranged from bandits to ferocious holy raiders to outright monsters you would otherwise only hear of in old wive’s tales, such aspirations could only be thought of as a disease for a mere peasant—a malaise of the mind. And yet, the boy would persist in his obsession. Mulling and mulling for every second of the daily droll he spent awake.

  “Sh!” His father blew air from grit teeth as a jolt of pain shot through his back as he stood up from watering one last mandrake–a screaming plant fit for both war and consumption. “Boy, put this back in the shed and feed Dally.”

  “Understood.” The boy replied, voice and eyes alike long drained of enthusiasm. He took the watering can from his father and returned it to the tool shed, grabbing a pitchfork on his way out. When he arrived at the stables, he impaled a bundle of hay that had been neatly stacked with others by a corner and threw it into the aged donkey’s booth. He stared at the jennet as she chewed up the hay, mesmerized by the sight.

  A minute or so later he slid down to the floor at the crushing realization that this was what constituted amusement for him.

  “I hate this… I hate this… I hate this…” He grumbled his mantra with the same quiet, boiling frustration. With no one watching, he punched the wall in a fit of aggravation, briefly startling poor Dally before she continued her feast. He stared at her again with his droopy eyes, almost envious of how content an animal could be with such a simplistic life.

  Eyes shut. A deep breath in. A deep one out.

  He rubbed his forehead in exasperation. His people had a tradition of oral storytelling where they would constantly tell tales of brave warriors vanquishing infidels and monsters, going on perilous quests, and living adventures of life times, a brief escape from their uneventful lives. But he could not tolerate that. His mind rotted from trying to tolerate that. He wanted to live it. He wanted to be a legend and brave dangers that no man had ever triumphed against before.

  But here he was. A peasant boy awaiting a peasant's death after living a dull, repetitive peasant's life. One day, he would break. One day, he would surely break. He had to escape. He had to begin his quest. He had to live.

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  And so he did.

  After finishing his father's final edict for the last time, he left the farm in the middle of the night and left for a northward path with a tiny stone bridge to lead him into the excitingly horrible world he had heard so much about. He stood at that bridge to endless possibility… and promptly returned to his home before his father realized that he had gone.

  Till. Plant. Water. Harvest. Till. Plant. Water. Harvest. Till. Plant. Water. Harvest.

  “I hate this... I hate this... I hate this... I hate this…”

  Back again. By his estimation, that may have been the thousandth escape attempt he had made in his 17 years of life. But he could never do it. His fear of stagnation was cruelly coupled with a fear of uncertainty. Each and every time he steeled himself to leave, fear's claw would tighten its grip around his heart and he would march right back to his bed. It was a disgusting performance, perfectly befitting his position. His spirit was raging for an escape, while his mind doused its flames.

  After a few days of assigning him the responsibility, his father had shortened his command to a simple “Dally.” And so, he went back to the stables once again, his weak mind eroding his body's ability to stand. And so, he allowed his body to collapse into the pile of hay after squeezing out the last bit of willpower to finish the task.

  As he stared at the ceiling, he could not help but note that the sight elicited the same feelings as staring at the night sky. Both were so familiar to him–so limited in scope and restrained that they felt like part of an extended prison. And with that depressing realization, his eyes shut closed. He fell asleep.

  …only to be awoken a handful of hours later by suspiciously cautious footsteps. He did not rise up immediately but peeked open an eye. There he saw a silhouette creeping ever closer to Dally's stable. Judging by how quiet he was being and how his ears had yet to be filled with admonishments over sleeping outside, he had a feeling that wasn't his father.

  “Stop right there!” He grabbed his pitchfork, ready to fight off the intruder. This, of course, proved to be an ambitious fantasy. The second the words left his lips, the figure had sprinted toward him and covered his mouth with a firm, gloved palm while the feeling of something sharp pricked his neck. It was a dagger--death ready to whisk him away with a flick of the wrist.

  “Quiet.” A gruff voice commanded. He held on so much harder to his face that he swore his jaw would crack. The enemy traced his weapon across the boy's neck. He was so close that he was beginning to make out some of the intruder’s face. It was gaunt with a messy mop of blonde hair that made it hard to see his eyes. It was a hair color he had only heard of in stories regarding heroes of Iberia, a human kingdom that bordered the Empire. “Utter another word and I'll have your tongue. Move and I'll have your neck instead.”

  The boy was shaking violently as the man slowly let go of his grasp on his face and made his way to the stable. He yanked Dally out with the gentleness of an ogre and placed a saddle latched onto the wall upon her before riding out into the darkness with a rough kick to make the jennet run forward with a pained shriek.

  The farm boy laid in that same pile of hay, stunned. His body was still shaking and sweating in such a way he never had before. It was the sweat of someone who really faced death for the first time in his life. With a single misplaced word or movement, that would have been the end of his meaningless, insignificant little life. He was powerless to defend Dally. Powerless to defend himself. Powerless to stop the golden haired bandit's ambition.

  These thoughts raged on and on until his frantic mind finally went completely blank. Without a word to his father, he donned his straw coat and drooping red hat. He grabbed the pitchfork with a now steady hand and slung it over his back. No amount of sensibility would hold him back.

  The flame in his heart was fierce and steady. The one thing he knew was that the thief who had stolen Dally had walked northward on a path far away from the nearby village. He had no clue what lay there. From his father's stern warnings, he could tell that it was nothing good, at least.

  Not that it mattered. No matter how foolish it was, he chose to walk the mysterious path. Today was his last day as a nameless peasant boy--human cattle. He would make sure that that bastard knew his name--Ismael, the man who would stop at nothing to retrieve what was stolen from his family! Onwards to the north!