I was blind. Long before the Goddess ever touched me.

  People say that in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes — every triumph, every mistake, every warmth and cold that carried you through the years.

  But what do you see when your eyes are already gone?

  Not images. Just memories. Just the feelings that led me here.

  So where does a story like mine begin?

  At the end or at the beginning of the world?

  For the sake of simplicity, we’ll call this the beginning.

  In the world of Thalen, on the continent of Ethronis, under the shadow of the Empire of the Iron Veil, in the iron-bound city of Krail, a boy like me was never meant to change anything at all.

  Yet by the age of three, I had seen more than any child ever should.

  Lifeless bodies in the streets. The homeless begging for ration scraps. Thefts in broad daylight. Trafficking done in whispers. Slavery carried out in plain sight.

  Atrocities that a child was never meant to witness—much less understand it.

  I never knew why my parents chose to serve as officers.

  With their talent—both in magic and the sword—they could have lived anywhere. They could have protected any province, joined any guild, or even retired early.

  Instead, they served here.

  One day, my father pointed toward the arena. “Watch closely Cade.”

  My eyes locked onto the display the Iron Hammer put on.

  They weren’t the most elite soldiers in the Empire, but they were close—ranked just beneath the Five Grand Marshals—the ones rumored to be the Emperor’s right hand, five extensions of his will.

  I suppose when the land you rule stretches across nearly thirteen million square miles, you need a reach long enough to choke the world.

  Magic burst through the air in shimmering arcs — fireworks of mana, cast in celebration.

  It was the annual festival honoring the Empire’s founding.

  Three-thousand-something festivals later, it was hard to see how any of this still reflected the “spirit of the Empire,” but I had been dragged along all the same.

  “Please…” A voice cracked beside me.

  An old man clutched his hand — a shallow cut, but deep enough to fester without healing.

  He begged a nearby soldier for a simple spell.

  A cantrip. Barely a flicker of mana.

  Even that was refused.

  I turned to ask my mother — a high-ranking mage more than capable of helping — but neither she nor my father were anywhere in sight.

  I called out for them, weaving through the crowd, but got no answer.

  As I pushed deeper into the festival, another scene froze me in place:

  A pregnant woman, pinned by the throat against a stone wall. A soldier’s gauntlet dug into her skin.

  How could this be right?

  “Get lost, kid. Official Empire business,” he snapped.

  I stepped back. Not out of obedience — out of confusion.

  Fear.

  A sense that the world didn’t make sense the way adults insisted it did.

  I wandered.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Somehow my feet carried me farther and farther from the lights and the cheering crowds — until the noise faded behind me.

  Before long, I stood at the edge of the Badlands, the air colder, harsher.

  “How did I get here…?” I muttered.

  And for the first time in my life, the Empire felt less like my home — and more like a cage.

  Most of the Badlands were reserved for adventurers—people who lived for adrenaline, danger, and coin.

  They hunted monsters, mapped ruined zones, and cleared nests the Empire refused to deal with.

  The Empire granted them licenses, of course.

  A thin slip of parchment that basically said: “Your life is expendable, but useful.”

  In some ways, they were as free as soldiers. In other ways… they were even more trapped. The Empire didn’t care what happened out here.

  If someone was willing to throw themselves at the creatures beyond the walls, why stop them?

  As I wandered deeper, one structure caught my eye.

  A building older than the rest. Its stone cracked and sun-bleached. Sand filled its doorway, as if the desert had started claiming it grain by grain.

  Yet something about it felt wrong. Or ancient.

  Or alive.

  It didn’t look abandoned so much as ignored — the way people ignore a place they fear on instinct.

  The walls were weathered, but not broken. Vines clung to stone that shouldn’t have supported any plant life out here.

  And the doorway… it felt like it was breathing.

  Primal.

  As if nature itself had curled inside the ruins and gone to sleep.

  I figured I was already in trouble for wandering off, so I might as well make this detour worth it.

  I stepped closer, feeling my heartbeat quicken—not from fear exactly, but from something deeper. A pull. Like my instincts couldn’t decide whether to warn me away… or urge me closer.

  I didn’t know what they wanted. But I’d been raised to be fearless, so I moved forward.

  The old door shouldn’t have opened so easily under a three-year-old’s hand.

  But it did.

  It groaned as it swung inward, sunlight spilling into the darkness as if it hadn’t touched this place in years.

  Why haven’t any adventurers come here?

  I wondered.

  As I stepped inside, the first thing I saw was a stone sculpture of a woman.

  She stood at the far end of the chamber, centered as if the room had been built around her. Slender, but strong.

  Her posture was calm yet ready, the stance of a huntress who never truly rests.

  Her clothing wasn’t royal or ornate. Simple, practical — but somehow still beautiful. Even carved from stone, she looked kind. Motherly. Fierce. And… sad.

  I moved closer.

  In her hands rested a book, carved the same pale gray as the rest of her. At least, I thought it was carved.

  Curious, I reached up to brush the dust from its cover.

  The book shifted.

  Just a small movement, but enough to send a chill up my spine. It wasn’t stone at all — it was real.

  A real book cradled in a statue’s hands.

  I took it before I had time to question why it was there. It was small enough to fit in my pocket, but thick — thin pages stacked tightly together.

  I tried to read it.

  But I was three years old, and whatever symbols were written inside weren’t letters I recognized.

  So I assumed it was simply too complicated for me and tucked it away.

  The room held nothing else. No offerings, no carvings, no crates or relics. Just the statue… and the book she had been guarding.

  As if this single object was the last thing worth protecting in the entire building.

  “Time for punishment,” I muttered, leaving the ruin behind to find my family.

  This time, I spotted them immediately.

  My mother ran to me the moment she saw me.

  “Are you injured? Are you safe? Were you attacked?”

  Her voice trembled as she checked me over with frantic hands.

  I was three. If anything had attacked me, I wouldn’t be standing here.

  “I’ll cast a healing spell,” she said, already forming the incantation.

  I didn’t need it. The old man in the crowd had needed it far more. When the spell faded, my father finally reached us.

  He didn’t run. He didn’t shout. He just walked down the road with the same steady steps he always had.

  “Cade,” he said when he stopped in front of me. “I know you’re adventurous. I know you’re curious. But you can't wander off like that. Not yet.”

  His voice wasn’t angry — just tired, and honest.

  “I’m not going to punish you. I’m just asking you to come home. Every time you do something reckless… come back home.”

  It was strangely genuine. Too genuine. He had no reason to be this kind to me.

  After all, I wasn’t even their real child. Officers weren’t allowed to have children of their own.

  It got in the way of their brooding—not the official reason, of course, but that’s essentially what the Empire meant.

  I nodded and walked in between the two of them back to the ceremony.

  Grand Marshal Torian Gale was finally wrapping up his speech.

  Every Grand Marshal had their entire personality shoved into their full ceremonial title. In his case:

  “Tempest Grand Marshal Torian Gale, Commander of the Imperial Legions, Second of the Dominion’s Hand.”

  I mean—seriously? What was wrong with just “General Gale”? Or literally anything shorter?

  Whatever. The end of his speech was probably nonsense anyway, so I zoned it out.

  My parents and I walked back toward our home near the heart of the capital. Stone roads. Cold lights. The same brooding walls I’d grown up under. Nothing unusual.

  Except for the weight in my pocket.

  When we finally got home, I slipped into my room, placed the booklet on my nightstand, and went to draw a bath — steam rising, warm water filling the tub.

  I watched the steam rise and thought nothing of the book beside me.

  I didn’t know why, but something in me felt still. Quiet. Alert.

  As if Thalen itself had stopped breathing for just a moment.

  Back then, I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t have.

  But now?

  Now I know exactly why that moment mattered.

  It was the first connection.

  I didn’t know then that I had just changed my entire future.