Several years ago, before the world reset happened.
A Night on the Banks of the Arandelle River
The night sky was not merely overcast; it seemed to be unleashing a fury suppressed for thousands of years. Rain poured relentlessly, dancing wildly upon the leaves and striking the earth until it turned into thick, suffocating mud. Occasional flashes of lightning tore through the heavens, casting a fleeting, pallid light upon a world that seemed to be swallowed by eternal darkness.
Amidst the bone-chilling wrath of the storm, a husband and wife ran, panting heavily. Bran tried desperately to shield a lantern with a sputtering flame, while Elira clutched her soaked cloak around her shivering body. They were ordinary villagers, newly returned from a long journey in search of a healer. For years they had shared a loving bond, yet Elira's womb remained barren—an empty space that had never been filled by the tiny cries they so deeply longed for.
Thunder roared.
Yet, beneath the ringing in their ears from the thunderclap, a sound pierced the clamor of the rain. It was not the sound of branches snapping in the wind, nor the howl of a starving wolf.
It was the cry of a baby.
Bran stopped abruptly, his feet sinking into the thick mud. He raised his lantern high, attempting to defy the arrogance of the night. "Elira... did you hear that?"
Elira nodded quickly, her pale face suddenly turning vigilant. "A child's voice? But... how is that possible in a place like this?"
Guided by instinct, they pushed through thorny bushes that tore at their clothes. On the banks of the Arandelle River, its currents swelling violently, they found something that defied logic. A tiny figure lay upon the roots of an old tree that jutted into the water. The baby was wrapped only in a dull cloth that remained inexplicably, perfectly dry, floating serenely above a surface that could easily drown a grown adult.
The roaring currents of the river seemed to bend around her, reluctant to touch the child. Around the tiny body, a faint, silvery mist drifted softly, acting as a protective blanket against a cruel world.
"She... she's alive," Elira whispered. Without hesitation, she scooped the baby into her arms.
Instantly, a warmth spread across her skin, erasing every lingering shiver. It was an unnatural warmth, as if this baby carried her own sun amidst the storm. As the cloth covering her face fell away, Elira froze. The baby's eyes were wide open a clear, beautiful shade of deep purple, yet possessing a depth that seemed capable of swallowing starlight.
Bran stepped back, doubt radiating clearly from his wet face. "Elira, this isn't right. That mist, her eyes... this isn't normal. Should we—"
"—Leave her here to die?" Elira cut in with a sharp, undeniable glare. "She's a baby, Bran. Not a curse. If the heavens sent her in the middle of a storm like this, then she is a blessing. Let me care for her. Let her be ours."
That night, witnessed by the slowly fading lightning, a monumental decision was made, a promise that would one day shake the very pillars of the world of Greistacia.
They named the child Leilynn.
As time passed, the secret of who she truly was, and why the heavens had seemingly raged at her arrival, remained tightly locked away, buried beneath the simple, loving care of a husband and wife by the riverbank.