The forest breathed in the soft light of early morning. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, casting dappled patterns on the moss-covered ground. The air was cool, filled with the scent of pine and earth. Yet beneath this peaceful veneer, something felt… different.
Riveria Ljos Alf, high elf mage of the Loki Familia, moved silently through the undergrowth. Her emerald eyes scanned the shadows with an intensity born from years of experience. She wasn't on a casual walk. Something had pulled at her senses—a faint ripple in the magic that surrounded Orario's dungeon and its sprawling labyrinth of caves and tunnels.
She followed that feeling deeper into the forest, farther than she usually ventured alone. The usual sounds of birdssong and rustling leaves seemed muted, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Then she heard it—a soft, desperate sound that did not belong to the trees. A faint cry. A child's cry.
Riveria's pace quickeneed, her long silver-green hair flowing behind her like a banner. The clearing ahead opened suddenly, bathed in warm light. There, on a bed of moss, lay a bundle wrapped in tattered cloth.
She approached cautiously, eyes narrowing. The baby was quiet now, eyes closed, but something about him made her heart tighten.
She knelt and carefully peled back the cloth. The infant's skin was pale, almost luminous in the sunlight, but what truly caught her attention was his left hand. It shimmered with an unnatural glow—a smooth, golden hue that wasn't a trick of the light.
Her breath caught.
The hand wasn't covered in gold jewelry or paint. It was gold. Real gold. As if some divine artist had sculpted the flesh itself into shining metal.
Riveria's fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the baby into her arms. Despite the hardness the gold should have implied, the hand was warm and soft beneath her touch.
The baby's red eyes flicked open, calm and piercing, meeting hers with an unspoken understanding far beyond his months.
Riveria's heart pounded. How had this child come to be here, alone and untouched by the dangers of the forest? No signs of struggle, no tracks—only silence.
"Who are you?" she whispered, almost afraid to disturb the fragile moment.
The baby made a faint noisse—a soft coo that seemed to carry weight beyond his years. Riveria smiled gently, a maternal warmth blossoming within her.
"I won't leave you here," she promised. "You're coming with me."
From that day forward, Riveria took the child under her wing. She named him Gilgamesh, after the ancient hero of legend—a name fitting for a boy with a hand of gold and eyes that held secrets.
The Loki Familia's headquarters welcomed him cautiously, but Riveria's influence smoothed the way. She was fierce in her protection, and none dared question her judgment.
As Gilgamesh grew, his presence was impossible to ignore. He moved with an unshakable confidence, the kind of quiet certainty that made others step back without knowing why. Even as a child, he held an aura that whispered: I am someone to watch.
His golden left hand remained a mystery. No one knew how or why it shone, but Riveria believed it was a blessing—and a burden.
Behind closed doors, she taught him everything she could: magicc, survival, and the importance of knowing one's own strength. But she knew the boy's power went deeper than spells or training. Something ancient stirred within him, something she could neither explain nor control.
Gilgamesh listened quietly, absorbing her lessons, but always seemed to move to his own rhythm. He didn't need to prove himself to anyone. He simply was.
And in the bustling halls of the Loki Familia, where strength and loyalty defined worth, Gilgamesh already had a place—because he carried himself like the king of his own story.