The moon hung low over the desolate plains of Ashenreach, casting long shadows over the crumbling ruins of what had once been a prosperous kingdom. The wind whispered through the remains of stone towers, hollowed out and shattered, as though the land itself mourned what had been lost. In the distance, the towering peaks of the Forge Mountains loomed like ancient sentinels, guarding secrets that no one had dared to uncover for centuries.
No one could say exactly when the kingdom had fallen. Some spoke of betrayal; others whispered of greed, corruption, and a curse that had ravaged the land, sinking it into ruin. But the truth, like many things in Ashenreach, was buried beneath layers of time, forgotten by all except the few who still lived in its shadow.
Among those few was a nameless child, barely ten years old, standing alone amidst the ruins. His clothes, tattered and worn, fluttered in the cold wind. His face, though young, bore the weight of someone far older. Eyes that had seen too much. His hands, stained with dirt and blood, clutched a small shard of broken stone—one of the many remnants of the fallen kingdom.
The child was not supposed to be here. No one was. The kingdom's fall had been swift, and its last rulers had disappeared as quickly as they came. All that remained was the wreckage, the silence, and the ghosts that haunted it. Yet, the child wandered through it, drawn by a force he could not name. The past, the ruins—it called to him.
His name had been forgotten long ago. In the world's eyes, he was nothing—a filler, a mere ghost, one of the many who had come and gone unnoticed. But he remembered something. A single phrase, carved into his mind like a brand: Temper the body, still the mind, and forge intent into every motion.
His body was weak. His mind, unfocused. But the intent? That was something he would find—if he could survive long enough.