Two years had passed. My father had never fully recovered from the day where Freya and Alva died. He blamed Ianite completely. In his world, the only god that existed was Mianite. If I ever tried to convince him otherwise, he would tell me to shut up. To avoid getting on his bad side, I decided to pretend I was a follower of Mianite.

Even though he didn't like me very much, he was aware that I could guard the town well while he was dealing with other matters. Every day, I would stroll around Dagrun by myself. My only friends were the merchants and, of course, Steve. He didn't get along with my father, so I served as his reminder of Martha.

"Good morning, Tim Burr," I said as I passed the woods. He was in the middle of chopping up a piece of wood, but he lifted his head and waved to me.

"Mornin', Andor. Did you hear about tonight?" he asked.

"Tonight?"

"Blood moon." He shook his head sadly. "I'll have to lock my doors. Better ready your sword... er... boomerang." He eyed the wooden device in my hand. Most people didn't approve of my choice of weapon. I wasn't the fighting type, so I used a boomerang for long-range self defense.

"I'll make sure to put on armor," I assured him, and continued strolling through the town.

Later, while the sun was setting, I was going into the house to find my wooden helmet when my father stopped me.

"I appointed you as a guard for a reason. You're supposed to protect the town. That means physical combat, Andor. You can't fight with a wooden helmet and a boomerang!"

I shrugged. "My boomerang repels mobs just fine. The helmet is just, you know, in case."

His stern face turned into a glare. "You heard me. There are tough mobs out there and I refuse to let you fight with that."

"I told you, I can..."

"Shut up, Andor," he snarled. "If you're going to protest, go hide in Steve's house for the night. Let him handle you." He left, shaking his head.

I did as I was told and ate dinner with Steve. I wasn't very hungry, so I sat on a chair and ate apples while the sound of dying mobs surrounded the cozy house.

"That father of yours," Steve grumbled. "Always orderin' you around, thinkin' he knows what's right and wrong. That you can't think for yourself. Sickenin'."

I shrugged, not as bothered about it as he was. "He's right. He's the king, he knows what's best. I'm only thirteen."

Steve picked at his food with his fork. "Thirteen, yes, and much more wise. Funny, isn't it, how the youth are much more intelligent these days."

I had no reply, so I was silent. We ate our dinner in peace, and I slept in the spare bed. I felt most at home here, in my uncle's cozy house. Yet, even with Steve's company, it felt dreadfully lonely.