THUD—THUD—THUD.
The insistent pounding echoed against the back door, cutting through the damp stillness of a rainy spring morning. The downpour fell heavy and unrelenting, as if the sky itself were grieving some ancient sorrow. A cold wind curled between the cracks of the Human Kingdom's buildings, carrying with it a strange, uneasy omen.
The housemaid—an older woman whose wrinkles time had etched with gentle hands—opened the door, muttering about the interruption. But her words died in her throat the moment she saw what lay before her.
A basket.
And inside it… a baby.
Tiny, fragile, only a few days old, wrapped in rain-soaked cloth.
"A child!!!" the woman gasped, her voice trembling with a mix of shock and urgency, as though she were calling for help from the brink of disaster.
Hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. A second maid, younger and breathless, arrived to aid her. She knelt beside the basket and, with trembling fingers, peeled back the wet fabric hiding the infant.
Next to the baby rested a small letter and a necklace adorned with a deep blue stone—so vivid it seemed to hold a piece of the night sky within its core.
The younger maid unfolded the note and read it aloud, her tone steady enough for both to hear, though tinged with reverence:
"The father died serving the kingdom, and the mother did not survive childbirth.
This necklace is the boy's only inheritance.
His name is Shimo.
Please take good care of him."
The women exchanged a long, weighted look—a silent mixture of pity, fear, and the sudden gravity of responsibility.
"Inform the baron," the elder finally said, her eyes never leaving the child.
This place was no ordinary building: it was a special wing founded by Baron Gregory Wilheim, meant to shelter children with no known family, offering them refuge until they were old enough to face the world on their own.
And now, there was one more to be taken in.
His name was Shimo.