Stardew Valley was known for its gentle pace, a land where the seasons turned with quiet ceremony and the villagers lived without the weight of war. Its people farmed, fished, bartered, and celebrated, content in their traditions and their peace. Danger lingered in the surrounding wilds, but it was mild, familiar—nothing the Valley had not long since learned to coexist with.

And so the arrival of a war general unsettled the balance. She did not walk like a farmer or speak like a merchant. Her presence was sharp, disciplined, marked by scars of conflict that had no place in Pelican Town. She was an edge drawn across soft earth, a figure that seemed out of step with the Valley’s tranquil rhythm.

Rasmodius, the Wizard of the Valley, had sensed her before she appeared. The magical currents had whispered of her, bringing him restless visions that stirred his mind into vigilance. He had written the prophecy down when the whispers became insistent:

"Beneath the cape, ashes will burn, and so will their souls. A heroic act if anything, born from the loyalty the soldier carried since her birth."

Now he saw its truth unfolding. She had gone into the mines—those treacherous depths of stone, darkness, and monsters—and returned triumphant. Slimes fell beneath her sword, shadow creatures scattered before her strength, and where others feared to tread, she pressed on. The mines had never been so clear, nor so profitable. Ore flowed in abundance, the blacksmith’s forge sang brighter, and Pelican Town thrived in her wake. The villagers, simple in their gratitude, praised her as a veteran, a protector.

But Rasmodius knew the truth was heavier.

“People do not seem to realize what threat you really are,” he murmured one evening, his voice low as he closed a leather-bound tome with a measured hand. Rising from his chair, he adjusted the brim of his tall, dark hat and fixed his gaze on her across the chamber. She stood as immovable as stone, her calm presence unbroken by the strange currents of his tower.

“They treat you as if you are merely a veteran,” he continued, each word deliberate. “But you are something else entirely.”

Their eyes met, sharp against sharp, neither yielding. Rasmodius was accustomed to his stare disquieting others, the weight of his power pressing like a cold wind at the back of their neck. Yet she did not falter. Her silence was not ignorance—it was strength, honed and unyielding.

He hummed softly under his breath. “Hmph.”

Turning away, he set the book back upon his desk, though his awareness remained fixed on her. “I will have my eye on you, mysterious one. Never forget that.”

It sounded like a warning, but the truth was subtler. Rasmodius was unsettled. He struggled to unravel the threads of magic woven into her being, threads not born of harmony but of discipline, of battle, of survival. She carried with her something the Valley had never known. Something he was not certain he understood.