Daniel's earliest memories were painted in hues of quiet sorrow. He lived in a small, stone cottage at the edge of the village, where the forest's edge kissed the rolling hills. His mother, a frail woman with hair like spun gold and eyes as gentle as the morning sky, always smelled of herbs and wildflowers. She spent her days tending to their little garden, her fingers stained with soil, yet her touch always felt soft and tender.
His father, a towering figure with broad shoulders and a permanent scowl, worked as a blacksmith in the village. His hands, calloused and soot-streaked, forged weapons for the knights of the realm, though he handled his family with far less care. His dark hair fell in unkempt waves over his face, and his beard, speckled with gray, made him look older than his years. His eyes, once sharp like steel, dulled over time — clouded by drink and bitterness.
