I never had parents, as far as I can remember. It was always just me and my brother, Philza. My brother said that our parents died in the fire of Sanjezel, and that he, at 12, fled to The Fringe on his own wings with me in his arms. My childhood was filled with weapons lessons, survival lessons, and most importantly, flying lessons. But everything changed when I was 15. He was 18, and I was getting the upper hand in the fight. Our swords clashed, his netherite against my iron, sparks flying from the grinding. I can still hear, and see him laughing... before everything went red. When I finally snapped out of it, he was on the ground with a gash on his forearm. His eyes were filled with terror, something I would never forget. I flew up, with my sword and bag and flew away, out of The Fringe