A long night, the sky of Kaliria cracked. Heavy rain, sweeping away part of the straw roof of a house in the village, and from a distance, towering spires revealed a gloomy kingdom covered in thick fog amidst a great storm, a baby was born with a voice louder than thunder. The baby was named Alaric. His mother passed away after.
Her mother passed away after giving birth to him, while his father, a Kalirian knight, was called back to the battlefield and never returned. The baby was left alone-without a mother, without a father, just a small cry in a collapsing world.
The villagers called his birth a curse. They remembered that night: fields destroyed, rivers overflowing, many houses swept away by floods. "This child brings bad luck," some whispered. But others whispered differently: "Perhaps he is the last hope."
Among the cold-staring crowd, an old grandmother stepped forward. Her hair was white like ash, her back hunched, but her eyes still glowed with an unextinguished fire. She held the baby without hesitation and then said, "If you don't want to accept him, let me care for him. The blood of a knight cannot simply be discarded."