He was born in the kingdom of Aldemar, not in marble halls but in a crooked hut at the edge of the village. His father was a blacksmith, hands forever burned and scarred by the forge, hammering iron from dawn to dusk. Yet coins slipped away faster than they came.

His mother kept the household alive with bread that was more crust than loaf, and thin soup where meat was a memory. Winter meant smoke choking the walls, summer meant tax collectors at the door.

He grew up with hunger as a constant companion, toys carved from scraps of wood, and a stone on a string he wore as his only treasure. Still, every strike of the hammer at his father’s anvil beat into his heart a promise: he would not remain small.

For the world, he was just the son of a poor blacksmith. For himself, he dreamed of something greater.