Sweat beaded on my brow, and my arms burned as I brought the ax down hard onto the round log. The pile in front of me was higher than I could see over, while the men beside me continued complaining that I was putting them to shame. I'd done this every day since my father had banished Saint. Splitting wood seemed to relieve pain, stress, and anger all in one satisfying loud bang as the ax bit into the log, sending it over the edge of the stump I used as a chopping block.

We'd been at ...