Another nameday come and gone.I am my father's only son, the only father figure my sister has ever known. Sweet Avriel... she came into this world 8 winters behind me. An accident, our father's last legacy.5 summers later, he was gone. Ripped from both of us by fang and claw, fire and hate. Our mother sank to her knees and never rose. She lingers there in a state of perpetual mourning, gazing out the kitchen window as though he may return if she stares hard enough.And so it was only the two of us. Avriel, barely 5 summers old, and me, a boy of a mere 13. Though we had never been particularly wealthy, without our father we lay on the brink of poverty, homelessness. And so it was that I took up work as a stonemason. This work was backbreaking, mind-numbing... I recall sitting on the scaffolding, sweating and freezing all at once, watching the dragoons train below. By 17, I'd had enough of stone and sand, lay down my trowel, and took up the lance.I have never once looked back.Avriel is 27 now. A grown woman, A whisp of a thing, she too has chosen the lance over the trowel. Though there are no longer any dragons to slay, she has sworn to protect our homeland from all others that may come. Garleans, void beasts, all. I daresay she will surpass me with minimal effort--as is my wish.It is time I hung up my own lance, or perhaps pass it on to Avriel. Surely she will balk at having to touch the pole her brother's sweaty hands gripped for so many years; but perhaps she will silently accept. When I am out of her line of sight.Now I must ask myself, where do I go from here?