27

The sound of clanging metal echoed through the alleyways of a distant memory. A girl, no more than seven at the time, cowered in the shadow of an old brick wall, her small frame trembling as she pressed herself against the cold stone. Heavy footsteps approached—boots striking the cobblestones with a menacing rhythm. The air felt oppressive, thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and something far more dangerous: fear.

She peeked out from her hiding place, heart pounding in her chest as she caught a glimpse of their gleaming armor. The sunlight reflected off their polished plates, blinding her momentarily. But it wasn't just the armor that frightened her. It was the sneers on their faces, the way they held their weapons so casually, as if they were toying with the idea of whether they should use them.

"Where's your father, girl?" one of the armored men growled, his voice low and threatening. His companions chuckled darkly behind him, their eyes glinting with malice.