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Hurt

Raen looked from what he thought was childishly giggling mother over to the riders and wished he could be there too. He squinted into the sunlight until he finally saw his father among the crowded, black-robed warriors. He watched him admiringly. The hilt of his sword protruded over his angular shoulders and he sat quietly on his nervous horse, his head held high. His gaze was focused on the edge of the forest in the distance. He wanted to be like his father one day.

After all riders and spectators had gathered at the start, it was quiet and the high priest stepped forward.

“With this race we thank Hrauna's benevolence according to the traditions of our forefathers! The hooves of the horses and the sweat of the riders should make their earth fertile, so that our great breadwinner may give us a good harvest! Today's winner, of course, deserves the solemn honor of making the first cut with the sickle at the beginning of the harvest moon! ”, The Hyaunset expla

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