Twenty years in the past, in the sprawling opulence of one of the many mansions owned by the mighty Harley Sain, a young Mozar frolicked with a joy unbefitting the scion of such a formidable legacy. The gardens were his realm, a place where his laughter mingled with the chattering of his companions—children whose ragged clothes and dirty faces marked them as denizens of a world far removed from the marbled halls within.

It was a forbidden camaraderie, a breach of the unspoken laws that governed the gulf between the mighty and the meek. Yet, in those fleeting moments, Mozar was just a boy, his heart unburdened by the cruel truths of hierarchy and power.

As the shadow of his father loomed on the horizon, a figure of awe and fear, Mozar ushered his friends toward the back gates. "Hurry!" he urged, his voice laced with desperation. "My father mustn't see you here!"

But Harley Sain's power was not merely physical; it was an omnipotence that seemed to stretch into the very essence of his surroundings. With ease that belied his imposing frame, he intercepted the three ragged children as they fled. His interrogation was as relentless as the midday sun, and the children wilted under his gaze, their stammered confessions naming Mozar as their forbidden friend.

Dismissing them with a flick of his wrist, Harley summoned his son, his voice a thunderclap of authority. "Mozar," he boomed, "do not lie to me. Explain yourself."

With the innocence of youth, Mozar spoke of friendship and equality, of a dream where the chasm between strong and weak was bridged by understanding and compassion. His words were met with a cold silence that presaged the storm to come.

"That is how the world works," his father declared, his voice a harbinger of inexorable truths. "You cannot change that."

Mozar's plea was cut short by a strike that left his cheek ablaze and his eyes brimming with tears. As his father turned to leave, the final words fell like a guillotine blade, slicing through the last tendrils of hope. "Do not make friends with those beneath you. You are a Sain, not a savior. And you, my son, are a failure for lacking any innate ability."

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Alone, with his face pressed against the cool marble floor, Mozar wept. His cries ascended to the gods, a plea for validation. "Am I wrong? Or is the world wrong? If not, can I fix it?"He pleaded, however got no response.

Five years spiraled away like leaves in the wind, and Mozar, now eighteen, found himself amidst a throng of high society, where his father was to be lauded once more. The ceremony was a parade of pomp and power until an errant spill of wine stained Harley Sain's shirt.

The servant's accident ignited the crowd into a frenzy of indignation. Stones and insults flew until Mozar, in an act driven by the same innocent heart that once sought friendship where it was forbidden, stepped forward. Shielding the servant with his own body, he absorbed the vitriol, the spit, the blows.

"It was an accident," he implored, his eyes searching the crowd for a glimmer of reason. "There is no need for this."

His intervention was the match that lit the pyre of his father's wrath. Harley's eyes bulged, his face contorted not with concern for his son, but with the embarrassment of association. With a spit that struck Mozar more painfully than any slap, he disowned him before the masses.

"If that's your choice, so be it," Harley decreed with a voice that seemed to shake the very foundations of their world. "But you will no longer be a Sain. Begone, outcast."

Time slowed to a crawl for Mozar, each second an eternity as the realization of his father's decree sank in. But it was the servant's next action that truly shattered the remnants of his world. With a shove that sent Mozar tumbling, the servant hissed, "Don't touch me, you talentless bastard."

The crowd's jeering crescendoed as they descended upon him like vultures to carrion. Mozar, the boy who once dreamed of bridging worlds, was trampled underfoot, his cries lost in the cacophony of scorn. And above it all, his father watched, a statue of indifference to his son's plight.

In that moment, Mozar's heart petrified into something unrecognizable. The innocence that once defined him was extinguished, replaced by a smoldering coal of resentment that would, in time, ignite into a blaze of hatred. His world had turned on its head, and from the ashes of his disgrace, the Mozar Sain that would one day stride into a tavern, seeking oblivion, was born—a man with a heart of stone and, eventually, a heart of hate.