In the time before rivers turned to dust,
before the last star falls from the sky and the old towers collapse and crumble,
there is still hope woven into the breath of the world.
Not a harsh expectation.
Not a hope sung by a traveling singer or engraved on an inscription.
But only quiet hope.
Hope that survives because it is invisible.
And among that silence walked one who was not born of prophecy or forged in the cradle of the gods.
They carried no blade of legend, no divine blood in their veins.
But when the veil between what is and what should never be is torn apart,
they stand where others kneel.
Not as a fighter.
Not as a saint.
But as a witness.
For pain.
For a change.
For the truth.
They walk not to lead armies or claim crowns, but to remember what the world has forgotten: that being human is not a destiny written by fate itself, but a choice made in the shadows.
At first, they were not called anything.
Just another soul burdened by time.
However, as the kingdoms began to crumble,
when animals move in the deepest earth,
when lies are crowned and truth is cast into exile,
the name is back.
Whispering in the wind.
Spoken by dying trees.
Etched in the firelight on the cave walls.
Becoming a Witness.
Not a savior.
Not a judge.
But one who sees the shape of what may be to come and chooses to move forward anyway.
And thus the story begins.
Not by conquest.
Not with glory.
But with memories,
and a soul strong enough to bear it.