"Clang," Hanske's spear slipped to the ground from his hand.
The crisp sound instantly startled him, making him stand straight up, scared of falling asleep again and getting scolded by the sentinel leader.
But he wasn't stable on his feet, and sleepiness overcame him again; his eyelids seemed weighted with lead, unwilling to open.
After all, he was only 14 years old, at the age of growth, needing sleep the most.
If he didn't sleep well at this time, he might, like an infamous Saint's Grandson, find it hard to grow taller.
Early spring's drizzle slanted in, hitting the wooden tower wall and leaving dark marks.
Hanske intentionally stuck his head out, letting the rain fall on his face to wake himself a bit.
Last winter, when the lord's conscription team grabbed him, his sister tearfully stuffed a cloth bundle to him, wrapped with three pieces of bread and a pair of cloth shoes inside.
