Hearken, reader, for what follows is not invention, but remembrance—pieced together from fragments of broken tablets, faint carvings upon stone, and the fading songs of shepherds who claim descent from a city long swallowed by earth and time. The tale is one of Kaelion, whom later ages named the Unyielding. His deeds are draped in wonder, yet they belong not to dream alone, but to the marrow of history.
The city of his birth stands no longer. Its name is erased, its walls reduced to rubble, its gardens choked by silence. Yet in its day it was radiant, a jewel of the southern rivers, famed for towers that caught the dawn and markets where spices of ten nations mingled. There Kaelion first drew breath.
He was not born to lords nor to priests, but to a humble household. Some claim his father was a mason, whose hands shaped stone; others, that he was a soldier who fell before Kaelion learned to speak. His mother, the records agree, was a weaver, poor in gold but rich in kindness. In her cottage, Kaelion grew, and it is said that even as a child his presence was like sunlight: drawing eyes, inspiring smiles.
By the age of twelve, his frame carried the strength of men twice his years. He wrestled boys and toppled them like reeds. At sixteen, he split oak staves with a single blow, and the older soldiers whispered that the gods had kissed his brow. Yet his beauty matched his might. Chroniclers speak of hair dark as bronze, of a face chiseled as if by sculptors, and of eyes that gleamed with stormlight. Maidens lingered at the fountains when he passed; children followed him in streets as if behind a piper.
But strength and beauty alone do not earn love. It was Kaelion's spirit that bound the people to him. He bore his gifts not with arrogance but with grace. He carried baskets for widows, shielded children from drunkards, and spoke to kings and beggars alike with the same voice. Thus, the city began to love him—not as one loves a lord, but as one loves a champion.
In those years the city was troubled by wars, for greedy neighbors cast their eyes upon its wealth. And when Kaelion first took up spear and shield, he fought not for coin, nor for promise of land, but for the safety of his people. Beside him in those battles fought the prince of the city, heir to the throne. Together they shed blood, their swords carving paths through foes, and for a time they were as brothers.
Yet the chronicles whisper already of envy. For when the soldiers gathered round their fires, it was Kaelion's name they sang. When the city's maidens lit candles in the shrines, it was Kaelion they prayed for. Even elders, wise with years, spoke of him as if he were chosen by fate. And though the prince wore the crown of expectation, Kaelion wore the crown of love.
Thus did the first shadows of jealousy creep into the heart of the man who would one day become king.
So begins the tale of Kaelion the Unyielding—not with throne nor triumph, but with a boy of humble birth, whose strength and grace bound a city's heart, and whose fate was to walk the road of sorrow and glory alike.