The cobblestone streets of Lament were a harsh and unforgiving place, where only the strong survived. Ragnar, a young orphan barely sixteen years of age, had learned this lesson the hard way. With no family to call his own, he had been forced to fend for himself, scrounging for scraps and evading the watchful eyes of the noble class that ruled the kingdom with an iron fist.

Ragnar's days were a constant struggle for survival. He would rise with the sun, slipping through the shadowy alleyways in search of discarded food or any trinkets he could barter for a few coins. The nobles, with their fine silks and gleaming armor, often turned a blind eye to the suffering of the commoners, content to enjoy their lavish lifestyles while the less fortunate fought for their next meal.

As Ragnar navigated the bustling streets, his eyes darted from one end of the avenue to the other, ever vigilant for any sign of trouble. He had learned the hard way that a moment's distraction could mean the difference between a full belly and a beating. The scars on his arms and the bruises that often marred his skin were a testament to the harsh realities of life on the streets.

Yet, despite the constant adversity, Ragnar refused to be broken. His spirit remained unshakable, his determination fueled by the knowledge that he was more than just a nameless urchin. There was a fire burning within him, a sense of purpose that he couldn't quite explain, but one that drove him to keep pushing forward, no matter the cost.

As he rounded a corner, Ragnar caught sight of a group of well-dressed nobles, their laughter and idle chatter echoing through the narrow alleyway. Instinctively, he pressed himself against the wall, blending into the shadows as he had done countless times before. He knew better than to draw the attention of the privileged class, for their disdain for the common folk was well-known.

But as Ragnar watched the nobles pass, his gaze was drawn to one man in particular – a tall, imposing figure with a cold, calculating gaze. This was Lord Thorne Grayvale, a notorious noble whose reputation for ruthlessness and cunning was whispered about in every corner of the kingdom. Ragnar had heard the tales, of how Thorne had clawed his way to power, crushing any who dared to stand in his way.

A shiver ran down Ragnar's spine as their eyes met, and for a moment, it felt as though Thorne could see right through him, as if he could sense the untapped potential that lay dormant within the young orphan. Ragnar held his breath, praying that the noble would simply pass him by, but to his horror, Thorne's lips curled into a cruel smile, and he began to stride towards him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Thorne's voice was smooth and measured, belying the malice that lurked beneath the surface. "A stray pup, cowering in the shadows. Tell me, boy, what are you doing skulking about in my kingdom?"

Ragnar's heart raced as he struggled to find the words to respond, his mouth suddenly dry. "I-I'm sorry, my lord," he stammered, his eyes downcast, "I meant no disrespect. I was just–"

But before he could finish his sentence, Thorne's hand shot out, grasping Ragnar's chin and forcing him to meet the noble's piercing gaze. "You were just what, boy?" Thorne hissed, his grip tightening. "Trying to steal from your betters? Plotting some mischief, perhaps?"

Ragnar's blood ran cold as he stared into Thorne's eyes, the intensity of the man's scrutiny leaving him paralyzed with fear. He knew that he had to tread carefully, for a single misstep could mean the end of his life.

"I-I was just trying to survive, my lord," Ragnar managed to choke out, his voice barely above a whisper. "I meant no harm, I swear it."

Thorne's lips curled into a cruel smile, and for a moment, Ragnar thought the noble might strike him. But instead, Thorne released his grip, shoving Ragnar back against the wall.

"See that you remember your place, boy," Thorne growled, his eyes narrowing. "The streets of Lament are no place for the likes of you. Next time, I may not be so lenient."

With that, Thorne turned on his heel and strode away, his entourage of nobles following in his wake. Ragnar watched them go, his heart pounding in his chest, relief and fear warring within him.

As the sound of Thorne's footsteps faded into the distance, Ragnar let out a shaky breath, his hands trembling. He had come too close to the edge, and he knew it. The nobles of the kingdom were not to be trifled with, and he had been a fool to think he could escape their notice.

Pushing himself away from the wall, Ragnar continued on his way, his mind racing. He had to be more careful, more vigilant, if he was to survive in this cruel and unforgiving world. The streets of Lament were a treacherous battlefield, and he was just a lone soldier, fighting for his life.

But even as he walked, Ragnar couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to his encounter with Thorne – a spark of recognition, a glimmer of something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He knew, deep down, that his life was about to change, and the thought both excited and terrified him.

Little did Ragnar know, the events of that day would set in motion a chain of events that would ultimately determine the fate of the kingdom – and his own destiny.