He always spoke of his home with the fondness of his heart—a life never I’d never lived. Perhaps it began there; a story of envy.

— Milaine

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There was once a small village which bordered the Marlyn Capital.

That village, hidden from society, and long forgotten by the many maps in Marlyn, was built within a dense forest’s clearing. There were no paths which led to it, nor were there any signs of it on record. It was like a ghost town; a place that shouldn’t exist; a land that a man typically does not tread; a land which worshipped the Old Gods, a heavy taboo within Marlyn’s modern society.

This was where Kallas had lived.

In a land which should not have been borne; in a land which should have perished long ago; he lived and thrived, and eventually, left. The village, known to some as ‘Old Farrow’, was known for its inexplicable mysticism. Many of its people were mystics, worshipping Old Gods they hadn’t seen themselves in order to fulfil their desires. Many prayed in good fortune, while others prayed for wealth, fame or power.

And pray they did; because when one asked, they had received.

Old Farrow had taught Kallas his morals, his values which he would so graciously hold on to for life. Old Farrow taught him to be kind, to be brave, to be respectful and powerful. It taught him how to share, how to feel for others and understand the values of human life—an element which is so commonly discarded today. However, like all good things, there was a shadow which loomed over the village.

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This shadow wasn’t evil by nature. In fact, it wasn’t even an evil within the village walls. Rather, it was the evil outside of the village which loomed over its wellbeing. It was the very contact that they had to the outside world which left Old Farrow in ruin, turned into a town of ashes and sorrow, a town of flame and fury.

Kallas had always been taught to pray for good fortune.

At the time, he thought nothing of it. A meaningless prayer, he so naively thought. After all, if fortune was simply the roll of an Old God’s dice, then there was no meaning in prayer. Everything had been decided already with a single hand, a single roll on a playing table, a simple game of probability, where everything was equal. But equality is not fair; life is not fair; fate is not fair; and neither is the dice.

That good fortune was simply a pleading. A humiliating attempt at imploring the Old Gods—apathetic and uncaring of the value of life—to bestow upon them another day. It was a way to please the omnipotent beings so that they would notice them for the last time.

Yet, the die is absolute, and there was no absolution for those deprived of their hand.

It all collapsed that day, then, when the young boy had forgotten his prayers;

when the young boy had forgotten his teachings;

when the young boy had left Old Farrow;

when the young boy had forgotten what made him—an uncaring God who wished for but a fleeting enjoyment.

The town had burned then, by the hand of his own companion.

Fortune did not favour the bold.