A Scribe's Resolve

The ink still stains my fingers, the quill is in my soul. They traded books

for leather and ripped away my role. My mother's words are written on the contracts of my

dread: "Go fight among the dragons or the shame will see you dead." I am too small for

armor, too slow to dodge the blade. A gentle hand for turning pages,

for battle, I'm unmade. A thousand riders watch me, their eyes are sharp

and cold. They see a fragile failure, a story left untold. I hear the whispers

follow like shadows in the stone: "You are a lamb to slaughter, you'll never make it home."

They call this duty, I call it the grave. Every breath I take, a life I cannot save.