Twenty-three years ago...
The village of Wayford was smaller back then. The orphanage was newer, its walls not yet weathered by decades of rain and wind. The children who filled its rooms had not yet learned to hide their pain behind laughter.
Some things, however, never changed.
"One day, I will be the strongest swordsman in the world and save lives!"
The shout echoed through the courtyard, loud enough to startle the chickens scratching in the dirt near the fence.
A boy, no more than ten years old, stood on a wooden crate with a stick in his hand. His chest was puffed out, and his eyes burned with a fire that refused to be ignored. His hair was a mess, dark and tangled, and there was a scrape on his knee from a fall he had taken earlier that morning. He did not care.
His name was Roran.
