The mother asked the seer to divine her new baby's fate. The old mystic came and looked at the sleeping child. She tilted her head, closed her eyes. Then, she drew back, frowning. No need to ask the gods. No need to roll the stones.

"Ironsworn," the seer said.

She took her price in silver and blood, and left the mother alone with the baby.

That night, the mother wept, for she knew her child would grow to live apart from her. Whether consumed by duty or vengeance, wanderlust or love, it was all the same. The trackless wilds would call, the blade and shadow would whisper their secrets, and her child would leave.

She cried for the life her child would live, and she cried for the knowing of it.

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