Inside his castle the King sits. A proud, strong man with a royal air and care for all of his subjects. Next to him proudly sits his Queen and their children. Surrounding them, servants beyond number, each awaiting his next command. The true picture of royalty.
In bursts a battered, exhausted messenger. The court jumps and looks at him questioningly. He runs to the King and kneels. He is told to rise and speak. He weaves a tale of battles far off, of blight falling over the land and the shadow of war looming over the kingdom.
The King broods on the subject for many moments. Then he leads forward and, in a voice strong and commanding, proclaims his decision.
The room goes silent. The King makes a gesture and the court scrambles. Ministers and counselors run from the room to do the Kings bidding as he sits back on his throne. A servant runs to him with a great chalice from which the king pensively sips.

--

At least, that is how Quixley pictured the scene playing out as the messenger from Rezinine nailed the notice outside of his family’s ranch. The messenger came early that spring morning and started his work. Within minutes he was finished and on his way. Moments after, Quixley’s parents were standing in front of the notice, mother crying at the sight and father sighing to himself.
Quixley walked outside, curious as to what caused his parents to react so emotionally. They both turned to him, tears and worry in his mother’s eyes. His father showed no emotion at all. Quixley walked up to the notice and read:
“NOTICE: By proclamation of King Xian Rezinine, 10th ruler of the Rezinine Empire, All able bodied males between the ages of 14 and 25 are to report to Rezinine and enlist in the Empirical Army to aid in defense against the Rising Tide. You have one lunar cycle to report or you will be punished.”
Quixley turned back around. “So . . . what, I’ve been drafted?”
His father nodded. “Yes. You have two weeks to get from here to Rezinine. Now go get dressed, you have work to do.”
Quixley’s mother turned to his father. “Oh, he doesn’t have to work now.”
“Yes he does. Work never stops on the ranch.” His father turned and walked back to the house.
“But what about the news he just heard?”
His father didn’t even pause. “We’ll discuss it at lunch.”
“But this is too important to-”
“I said we’ll discuss it at lunch!”
Quixley’s younger sister walked out of the house. After a particularly large yawn, she looked at the rest of the family outside. “What’s all the commotion?”
Her father walked past her in the doorway. “It’s nothing Vivilan. Get dressed, there’s work to do.”

--

The morning passed with Quixley milking the konsolds and brushing their soft, sleek fleece. As he brushed her, their oldest konsold ewe nuzzled up against him, knocking him off of his feet. Quixley laughed as he pulled himself up and stroked the face as large as his torso. “Careful girl! I’m not as big as you. I’ll get hurt!” She bleated an apology, and he continued his work.
It was also his job to file down the horns on the newborn rams, already the same weight as him, and refill the feed in the feed troughs. Finishing his job early, he took a short break, finding his favorite rock in the field and pulling out the sketchbook he hid there. He pulled out the charcoal he stored with it and began sketching the konsolds grazing around him. He’d always enjoyed drawing. For as long as he’d been able, he’d been drawing. Now nineteen, he was getting exceedingly good at it.
After just five minutes of sketching, he had an almost picture perfect replica of the beast grazing before him. That was when he heard raised voices coming from the house. He put the finishing touches on his picture, put the book away, patted the flank of the calm ram he’d just drawn, and started toward his house. A few steps later he stopped. “I’d better grab it now . .  .  could be the last time I’m here . . . ” Quixley walked back to his rock and pulled his sketchbook from its alcove. For some reason the rock seemed lonely now, as though it were missing something. With a faint sigh, Quixley again headed towards his house.

--

Quixley stood outside of the kitchen. Within, his parents loudly argued his fate.
“-s leaving in the morning.” His father’s voice showed only a hint of anger.
“Why? Why must he go so soon? He has a full two weeks before the next lunar cycle.”
“He was drafted. He should hurry to Rezinine and do his duty like every member of this kingdom should.”
“He doesn’t need to go! There are plenty of other men to go die for the kingdom.”
“Triana! Listen to yourself! The Rezinine Empire is the reason that we are able to live our lives. We must do everything we can to protect it. If that means that I must give my son, then I regret having only one son to give!”
“Listen to yourself! You’re talking about our son! He doesn’t need to die for our kingdom!”
“He is my son and I say he is going to do his duty!”
“He doesn’t have to go!”
“It’s the law!”
“Forget the law!” Quixley could hear the tears in his mothers voice. “Forget the law . . . he has no reason to be out there fighting . . . He should be home, safe and sound.”
“He should, but he won’t. He’ll leave tomorrow morning, travel to Rezinine on foot, fight in a war, and possibly die in the name of our King. He is leaving tomorrow.”
“I won’t let my child die for nothing!”
“He is leaving tomorrow!”
“At least give him until next week!”
“He is leaving tomorrow!”
“STOP!” Quixley stood in the doorframe. “Stop arguing over me!” Quixley’s parents stared at him. His father looked at him coldly.
“How long were you there?”
“Long enough.”
His mother took a step towards him. “Quixley . . . ”
He stopped her. “No. I’ll go. It’s the law, and more importantly it’s . . . it’s my duty.”
“Quixley, don-”
“I’ll leave in the morning.” He shrugged his mother off and exited the kitchen. He stopped at the door. “If you need me, I’ll be in my room.”