Neverland is a cold and hostile world. Today you may walk its streets in peace, and tomorrow neither your city nor you yourself may remain. Sorcerers and witches, driven by the pursuit of power, are ready to use anyone before you know it, you've become an ingredient for their sinister potions… or something far worse. Robbery and extortion have become so commonplace that no one is surprised anymore. The grudges and malice festering in the hearts of the nobility often spark wars that claim thousands of lives in a single moment. New quarrels, new battles. The insatiable thirst for blood and greed drives us to want more and more that is our nature.
No matter how dark the world becomes, life still finds its way and continues to flow. One can adapt to anything, though sometimes it requires sacrifice. We do not choose where to be born, who our parents will be, or what kind of world will surround us. But it is within our power to change our fate.
Temeria a proud kingdom in the north of the Continent, one of the largest and most powerful realms. Its fertile plains and forests yield rich harvests, strengthening the region's prosperity. To the right, the Mahakam Mountains rise high, their depths rich with veins of copper, iron, and, of course, gold. Yet far more important to Temeria's wealth was its favorable position at the crossroads of trade routes, collecting enormous tolls even from caravans merely passing through.
The year was 1163 and that number marked the beginning of a civil war. Several nobles sided with Princess Falka, and in her name, peasant uprisings spread across the land. The war began with small skirmishes and fires, but soon engulfed much of Temeria. Only after the pregnant queen was kidnapped did King Goidemar muster all his strength to crush the rebellion. In time, the uprising was subdued but its echoes would haunt the kingdom for many years to come.
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In a forest a few kilometers from the capital, Vizima, a battle raged. A small caravan had been attacked by several bandits. The reason was simple hunger, driving people to monstrous acts.
The bandits were once simple peasants, paupers, and deserters, armed with whatever they could find: rusted scythes, clubs, and knives. Nothing could stop them they killed anyone who might have hidden even the smallest thing of value, sparing neither women nor children.
Villages were being raided, their inhabitants fleeing to the larger cities in hopes of finding shelter and surviving the storm. These travelers, too, had taken that chance but misfortune led them straight into an ambush. The bandits slaughtered almost everyone with cruel delight, leaving only the women alive long enough to violate them before finishing the deed.
The ashes still smoldered where the caravan had stood. The bandits gathered what little food and cloth they could find. Then, satisfied with their loot, they hurried away before soldiers could track them down.
After a time, crows descended upon the corpses, pecking at the dead flesh. And then, breaking through the heavy silence, came a child's cry.
"A-a-a-a-a!"A shrill, desperate wail, full of tears.
Hidden beneath a tree was a tiny basket, covered with branches. In her last moments, a mother had given her son a chance to live, hiding him away. But who could save him now, in such a dreadful time? Gradually his cries grew weaker; the child's strength was fading, leaving only soft, pitiful sobs. He lay there, staring through the branches at the dark sky, barely breathing.
In Neverland, people believe in fate. If you are meant to meet someone it will happen, whether you wish it or not. Everyone believes themselves guided by some unseen force, and those who try to defy it may face the most terrible and unpredictable destiny.
Through the forest walked a woman in a long, worn cloak. She was no longer young; the years had left their marks upon her face. Leaning on a walking stick, she carried a basket in her other hand. Her sharp eyes scanned the grass, and when she spotted the plant she sought, she knelt carefully, cut it, and laid it gently into her basket.
At first, she paid no mind to her surroundings, absorbed in her gathering. But then she stumbled upon a corpse. With a gasp of horror, she recoiled, her heart pounding. All around her, the road was strewn with bodies, congealed blood staining the earth, and the air thick with the stench of death.
Terrified, she turned to flee but stopped. A thought flickered in her heart: what if someone was still alive? Someone who needed help? Summoning her courage, she stepped forward, carefully avoiding the bloodied remains, searching each still face. No sign of life.
She dared not call out loudly, afraid to draw the wrong kind of attention.
"Is anyone there?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
Silence answered her.
She was about to leave when she heard it a faint, almost imperceptible sob. At first, she thought it was her imagination. But then it came again: weak, childlike, trembling.
Guided by the sound, she approached the tree and noticed a small basket beneath it, covered with fabric and branches. Her heart clenched. Carefully lifting the cloth, she saw a baby tiny, pale, no older than ten months.
"Poor thing," she whispered softly. "You've lost everything."
Gently, she lifted the child into her arms. Feeling the warmth of her hands, the infant finally calmed and, lulled by her steady breathing, soon fell asleep.
Maria sighed heavily and cast one last glance at the scene of the slaughter. Then she tenderly brushed her hand across the baby's head.
"Come, little one. Time to go home. To your new home."
She carefully laid him into her own basket, wrapped him up, and hurried toward the city. The road was short; before long, the walls of Vizima rose before her. At the gates, the guards greeted her with a simple nod this woman was well known here. No one asked questions.
Maria walked briskly, slipping through dark alleyways, knowing the path almost by heart. Soon, a small but sturdy house appeared before her. The moment she opened the door, joyful voices filled the air as children rushed toward her from every corner.
Smiling, she embraced those who had managed to wrap their arms around her waist and hands, and then, raising her voice slightly, said:
"I'm glad to see you too. And now… meet your new brother."
She pulled back the cloth from the basket, revealing the sleeping infant to the curious children.
"Hello!" they cried out in cheerful unison.
"What's his name?" came a voice from the crowd.
"His name?" Maria looked into the baby's eyes as he blinked awake from the noise.
"Altair," she said. "May he soar high above the clouds, untouched by sorrow."
As there are those in this world who would sink to the lowest depths of depravity, there are also those whose souls shine brighter than the world around them. Mother Superior Maria was a healer. She had devoted her entire life to the art of alchemy gathering herbs, recording recipes, seeking ways to make her potions and decoctions ever more potent. She never charged high prices for her medicines so that even the poorest could afford to be healed.
During Falka's uprising, Maria had seen countless children who had lost their homes and families. She could not turn away. Her small trade sustained a humble orphanage she opened for them.
The children grew, each developing their own character and dreams, yet all shared a single wish to help their home. Some accompanied Maria into the woods, gathering herbs and learning to brew simple potions, easing her burden. Others found small jobs in the city carrying water, helping at the market, running errands.
But among them was one group the boldest, most restless, and most curious. They had taken to petty thievery.
Children could slip unnoticed through crowds, snatch something from a merchant's basket or a careless noble's pocket, and hide their spoils in small, nimble hands or beneath ragged clothes.
Punishment for theft was merciless, even for children. A severed hand was considered a mercy. Those foolish enough to steal from the nobility were executed without hesitation or pity.
And so, between life and death, Altair grew. He joined the band of young thieves. Some days he managed to find enough food not only for himself but to share with others. Sometimes he gave away more than he kept, going to sleep hungry. He saw the world a little differently from the rest and even in the darkest of times, he tried to believe in something better.
Mother Superior Maria could not ignore what her children were up to, and like any caring mother, she tried to dissuade them from their dangerous pursuits. She worried especially about Altair.
"Listen," she told him once more. "There are plenty of honest trades. I can see you're not foolish you learn quickly. Strive for something greater than being a pickpocket."
"Then we'll starve," Altair replied. "Right now, that matters more."Then, in a quieter voice, almost a whisper: "Besides… I'm doing it for you."
"What did you say?" Maria fixed him with a sharp, searching gaze."If you have something to tell me, speak plainly."
"Nothing," Altair muttered, turning away. He left the small room where potions were usually prepared the walls lined with dried herbs, the air thick with their bitter scent.
When the door closed behind him, Mother Maria watched him go with a heavy heart.
"He's pure of heart… but still too naïve," she murmured to herself."I did not find him by chance. Great things await him."
But Altair had no intention of giving up his trade not now, when everything was finally beginning to work. His skills grew sharper each day. Passing through a crowd, he could empty a purse to the last coin without anyone noticing. He preferred to target those dressed in fine clothes; the poor townsfolk already had too little to lose.
Did Altair enjoy it? Undeniably, yes. It allowed him to eat his fill, at least sometimes, and to keep a few coins of his own.
The echoes of war still shook Temeria, and the stream of destitute children found its way ever more often to Maria's doorstep. The townspeople knew she would never turn anyone away and so they began leaving their unwanted little ones right at her door. Poor families rid themselves of mouths they could no longer feed.
They could not feed everyone, and though the orphanage still provided what food it could, the portions grew smaller by the day. Maria was aging, and each year it became harder for her to venture into the forest for herbs. The children, still young, could not yet walk so far or tell which plants were the right ones to gather.
Mother Maria knew she could no longer take in more children. But how could she simply leave them to die on her threshold? Yes, she scolded the little thieves, berating their recklessness but deep down, she understood: they had no other choice. Without their stolen bread, there would be none for all.
The darkest days always come without warning. So it was when the matron of the orphanage fell ill. The children could do nothing there was no money left, and mages capable of working true miracles demanded more than they could ever pay. Even her own tinctures, brewed with care and knowledge, brought her no relief.
Before long, rumors began to spread through the district: whispers that her potions were useless, her craft a fraud. People who had once trusted the power of her herbs now turned their backs.
"What kind of herbalist is that?" they murmured. "Can't even cure herself. Must mean her tonics are nothing but water."
And so, as lies turned to rumor, the truth became twisted. Her reputation crumbled. And without trust, there would be no patients. No patients meant no coin. And without coin no hope.
With each passing day, her health worsened, until one morning, she simply did not wake. She lay still, as if peacefully asleep forever. That day became a day of mourning for all who had called her mother for all whom she had saved from hunger, cold, and certain death.
Good people are rare. And the world is cruel to them. Why is it that the kind ones are always the first to go, while the cruel and deceitful live on, untouched?
Altair asked himself that question again and again. He could not believe she was gone. Even as her strength faded, he had clung to hope to the thought that a miracle might come. He prayed to the goddess, begged for her mercy. Surely she would not allow such injustice. But no miracle came.
When word of her death reached the local authorities, they wasted no time. The orphanage had long been a thorn in their side a breeding ground, they said, for vagrants and petty thieves. Under the pretense of "restoring order," they raided it drove the children out into the streets, and claimed the house for themselves.
Cast out into the cold, the children tried to find a new shelter. But every door was closed to them. Even those who might have taken them in for coin, perhaps did not inspire trust. Too many of them looked like vultures, eager to take the gold and vanish, leaving the children to a worse fate.
When winter came, the streets became a death trap. The abandoned froze where they slept. The weakest fell sick, and then silent. Townsfolk passed them by without a glance. Some even said it was for the best fewer children meant fewer thieves. A blessing for some, a curse for others.
But Altair refused to give up. Together with the older ones, he tried to save those he still called family. They searched the city knocking on doors, pleading, scouring for any empty house. But Vizima, vast as it was, offered them no refuge. Every vacant dwelling already had a new master, and no one cared to hear the pleas of gutter children without coin or kin.
One bitterly cold day, Altair and his companions returned to a narrow alley where the younger ones huddled together wrapped in rags, trembling from the cold. Some no longer moved at all.
"Get up. We're going home," said Orvin, one of the older boys the leader of the orphanage's band of thieves. His voice was firm, confident.
"Really?" whispered a little girl, younger than Altair himself. Her voice carried a faint but living spark of hope.
"Yes. They've given our home back," Altair said, smiling with quiet relief.
For the first time in a long while, the children's faces lit up. Exhausted and weak, they rose slowly, clutching their few belongings a ragged bundle here, a torn scrap of blanket there, as if each were a precious treasure.
"How did you get it back?" asked one of the smallest boys, struggling to his feet.
"That doesn't matter," Orvin replied, casting a brief glance at Altair. "What matters is we'll survive the winter."
And so they returned to the house that had once been Maria's orphanage. But the warmth was gone. Without her, the walls felt alien, hollow. Her spirit no longer lingered only shadows, silence, and cold.
The future no longer seemed bright. A house does not make a life.Their problems remained: there was still no food, and the potions that had once brought income were now worthless to all. Hope lingered but it was fragile, like the last flame of a dying candle.