In one of the lessons, I was allowed to peer into the history of my own world. It was a few hundred years before I was born, but I quickly realized it was closely related to legends I heard as a child.
 
In the rolling green plains of Gandria, the ancient name of the land where I was born, villages and towns flourished under the rule of one Lord Sunhall. A pious and noble leader, many remember him for his kindness to his subjects.
Yet a legend must have a twist, and that twist came like a storm. Brass was the storm's name, a great and terrible bandit warlord. Driven from the strange steppe lands up north, he took his men down south to loot and plunder as he saw fit. First a few caravans, then a trading post, and finally a village. An entire homestead set ablaze.
 
Naturally, Lord Sunhall had to act. His messengers rode their horses hard, and brought the warrant of conscription far and wide. Many men heeded the call, and went to Sunhall's keep to enlist to keep the land safe. Among them was a nameless blacksmith, a large and round man with more than a bit of strength in his arms. When the messenger came to him, he joked that he ought to wield his blacksmith's hammer instead of a sword. Of course, he didn't mean it - he left the hammer at home the day he went, and allowed his son to see to the horseshoes in his stead.
 
When Sunhall's small army gathered, a handful of household knights and two dozen conscripted villagers, spirits were high. It's easy to be courageous when the enemy is still far away, and you're surrounded by friends. When the sun is up, and your lord leads you.
 
When they first laid eyes upon the northern bandits, it wasn't so easy.
Some men broke then and there, and ran.
Others were not so wise. Lord Sunhall, upon his horse and surrounded by his knights, lead them onward, only to be torn apart by the savage bandits. They say Brass himself lunged at Sunhall's horse, a serrated sword in hand.
That might have been when Lord Sunhall decided to fall back. To his keep he returned alone, bruised and bloody. All of his men were presumed dead. Unwilling to live with the shame, he slit his own throat that night.
 
For several weeks, the tragedy of that day paralyzed the land. Brass and his bandits looted as they saw fit, and none dared stop them.
 
None, but one boy. The blacksmith's son.
 
They say there wasn't a cloud in the sky that day, when the blacksmith's son took his father's hammer and walked out the door. Outside, Brass and his men were demanding food from the villagers. The sun shone brightly while the boy, completely without fear, challenged Brass to single combat.
 
When the boy charged at Brass, hammer raised, the scene could've just stopped then and there. Frozen in place by a particularly romantic god, preserved forever.
 
Brass slapped him aside hard, and the boy fell, the heavy hammer flying out of his hands.
 
What came after is not mentioned in the legends. You see, in the legend of the Boy Saint, the boy rose again with righteous vengeance in his eyes, picked up his hammer once more and struck down Brass with a single heavenly blow that sent his men running, and some versions of the legend insist they haven't stopped running to this day.
 
I'd like to say that's what I saw.
I'd like to say Brass didn't pick up the boy, and without a sentiment broke the boy's back over his knee, before tossing him aside.
 
That was the lesson, I think. Don't become emotionally invested in the realities you peer into as a Seer, because the universe holds far more tragedies than you could possibly imagine.