The world was burning. Iris's pride, her retainers, even the homeland she loved—all had turned to ashes. Iris had fled. This was the free nation of Gald. Contrary to its glorious name, the back alleys, like a gathering place for the forgotten, were filled with the stench of rust and mud. Pelted by rain, her silver armor stained with mud as she crouched low, Iris no longer had even the strength left to grip a sword.

Into her despair-shaken vision, a pair of rugged boots stepped into view. Looking up, she saw a man standing like a rock, stern and severe, with a massive greatsword strapped to his back. In his eyes lay the same deep sediment of loneliness that Iris herself harbored within. The man said nothing. He simply reached out, grabbed her mud-caked hand without ceremony, and pulled her to her feet.