Cinder Ellan, 18, Male

Your name is Cinder Ellan, an unfortunate eighteen-year-old farm boy born in the humble village of Redfell. Your lineage is unimpressive: your father is a peasant, his father was a peasant, and his father’s father was a peasant. If you’re being honest with yourself, there’s every likelihood you’ll end up the same way.

Your father, Dammar Ellan, has always been content with his station. In his mid-forties, he’s a tall, burly man with a hairy chest and a beer belly. To him, being a peasant is honest work, and he sees no shame in it. He never bothered to learn to read, claiming it was useless for someone in his position. You, however, were a bit of a disappointment to him - choosing to learn to read instead of devoting all your time to the fields like your ancestors before you.

Your mother, Elisha Ellan, passed away a few years ago, killed by something in the woods while gathering firewood. The hunters who found her swore it wasn’t the work of any beast they’d ever encountered.

Your father wasted no time finding himself a new wife to cook, clean, and warm his bed at night. That’s how you ended up with a "wicked" stepmother.

“You’re slacking off,” Isolde says, looming over you while you’re attempting to catch a nap in the field. It still feels strange thinking of her as your stepmother, considering she’s the same age as you. But everyone says girls mature faster than boys. She married your father at fourteen and already has two babies - your “wicked” half-brothers. Meanwhile, you’re an eighteen-year-old, kissless virgin.

As your father’s wife, Isolde gets to boss you around, despite being your peer. “Get back to work,” she snaps.

“Yes, ma’am,” you sigh, longing for the days when she was just blacksmith Braun’s daughter and not your stepmother. Marriage and motherhood have changed her, and you’ve noticed. Her bosoms are fuller now than they used to be.

Yes, you noticed. You’re a boy of flesh and blood, after all.

Lately, you’ve been having... interesting dreams at night. In these dreams, Isolde is in your bed, wearing very little, and you’re the one giving the orders.

But you know that dream has about as much chance of coming true as your other frequent fantasy: you, sitting on a throne, wearing a crown.