The storm had no name. It came with no wind, no rain — only silence and fire in the sky.
High above the mountain citadel of Vaelgard, where the towers of House StormCrown rose like ivory spears into the clouds, the heavens split with streaks of violet and gold. Lightning twisted but made no sound, and the stars above seemed to shudder.
Lady Ilrana StormCrown screamed.
Her cries echoed down stone corridors soaked in torchlight and shadow. Attendants rushed in and out of the birthing chamber, faces pale with fear — not of the birth, but of what this birth might mean. The Matriarch of StormCrown was a hard woman, iron-willed and fierce. But now, sweat-slicked and writhing in pain, she seemed almost mortal.
Beside her stood four figures, each cloaked in varying degrees of stoicism, dread, and wonder.
Lady Yngvara, her elder sister, knelt by the bedside — sleeves rolled, silver-streaked hair damp with exertion. A former battlemage turned mentor, she was now midwife by necessity, grounding Ilrana through the agony.
"You're doing it, sister. One more breath. One more push," Yngvara murmured, though her eyes flicked toward the ceiling where the air shimmered and cracked like a forging blade.
Near the back of the chamber, Virelya stood like a war statue — arms crossed, jaw clenched. The eldest daughter and commander of the StormCrown militia, she didn't flinch at blood or chaos. But even she stepped back when the ceiling groaned above, stone whispering against itself as though watching.
Beside her, Ennalyn, the arcane scholar, scribbled feverishly into a leather-bound codex. Her ink ran in places from the sweat on her hands. Symbols in the margins shifted — not drawn, but written by something else. She blinked, refocused, and whispered, "It's happening... it's really happening…"
The youngest, Katja, lingered nearest to her mother. Not touching — not daring — but close enough to shield her with her body if need be. Her eyes, normally sharp and mischievous, were wide and glassy.
They all felt it.
A pull.
A summoning.
And then—
A final scream tore through Ilrana's throat as the heavens burst.
Not thunder — not sound — but a pulse.
A wave of invisible force that made the fires gutter low, and the castle itself groan as though awakening from sleep.
And in that moment, beneath stormlight and stone, Saviik StormCrown entered the world.
He didn't cry.
He breathed.
In.
And with it, the flames in the braziers flared to full brightness.
Out.
And a hush fell across the room like snow across a battlefield.
Yngvara held him up, trembling despite herself. "By the gods…"
But the gods said nothing. The storm did.
From beyond the walls of Vaelgard, a roar sounded in the distant mountains — deep, ancient, impossible. One that all recognized, yet none had heard in their lifetimes.
"A dragon?" Katja whispered, voice nearly lost to the silence.
"No," Ennalyn murmured. "Not a dragon. The dragons are watching."
Ilrana forced herself upright, bloodied but unbowed. She reached out, and Yngvara placed the newborn in her arms. He was warm, his skin strangely unmarred by birth, his eyes already fluttering open.
Not blue. Not green. But the shade of molten silver — shifting, endless, unblinking.
Ilrana smiled, though it was the smile of someone who had glimpsed something far beyond her station.
"His name," she said hoarsely, "is Saviik. Of my blood. Of this world."
Yngvara nodded slowly. "And not just of this world, Ilrana. He's something older. Something called."
Outside, the storm began to die. The lightning faded. The stars blinked in relief.
But deep in the Echo — the unseen heartbeat of the world — something stirred in answer.
Something that knew the child now born.
Something that remembered the last time a Trueborn walked the world.
And it feared him.
The years that followed the night of the storm were ones Vaelgard would remember in whispers and in songs.
Though the tempest that heralded his arrival had passed, its mark lingered in every corridor the boy walked. Tapestries curled subtly toward him. Old stone doors shifted in their hinges. Horses calmed at his touch, and the servants crossed themselves silently when he passed, unsure whether to bow to the child or flee.
Saviik StormCrown was no ordinary heir.
At five winters old, he was quiet but watchful — and growing fast. He was strong for his age, with the sharp features of his mother and the glint of silver still swimming in his eyes like living metal. His hands had not yet learned the sword, but he would trace runes in the snow outside the castle and whisper to the wind. Sometimes, the wind whispered back.
His aunt Yngvara began his formal training before he was six — earlier than custom, but none dared question her.
"He is not meant to wait," she said simply. "The world won't."
She taught him forms older than the written tongue, sword drills passed down from fallen empires, and the silent rituals of breath and balance. But more than that, she watched.
There were moments — brief, alarming — when Saviik seemed to know things he should not. Words in dead languages. Histories no longer taught. He once woke from a dream and asked Katja where the stars had hidden the White Flame.
There was no such star, no such name.
Yet Ennalyn had found mention of it in a forgotten scroll — sealed behind six layers of script.
And through it all, Lady Ilrana remained unchanged.
She did not coddle him. She did not soften. But she watched, with a gaze that burned hotter than fire and a silence that weighed heavier than stone.
Saviik was her son — and something else. Something the world would either kneel to… or be broken by.
In the spring of Saviik's seventh year, a royal entourage from the High Marshes of Eldmoor arrived at Vaelgard, their cloaks soaked with river mist and banners embroidered with twin serpents coiled around a flame.
Among them was a girl — flame-haired, sharp-eyed, and utterly unafraid of anything.
Xala Veyne, daughter of Thane Kael Veyne, was five moons older than Saviik. She carried herself like she'd been born in armor — which, by most accounts, she nearly had. Her people were known for their blunt pride and fierce loyalty. Eldmoor's nobles fought alongside their soldiers and buried their dead with swords in hand.
Ilrana, ever calculating, welcomed them not just as guests — but as allies. The StormCrowns and the Veynes had stood apart for decades, watching each other with wary respect. This meeting was a shift. A realignment of old powers.
But Saviik saw none of that.
He saw only her.
She stood barefoot in the courtyard the first day, balancing atop the edge of the stone fountain like a tightrope walker. When he approached, she didn't look up — just pointed at the sword carved into his tunic.
"You're the storm boy," she said.
He blinked. "My name is Saviik."
"And I'm Xala," she replied. "They say you were born under lightning. Want to see if you fall like thunder too?"
And she pushed him.
Right into the fountain.
They were inseparable from that day.
Xala was everything Saviik wasn't — loud, mischievous, fire where he was shadow. She dared him to climb the cliffs beyond the castle and taught him how to set traps for the kitchen rats. He taught her how to listen to the ground beneath her feet, how to breathe in rhythm with the air.
Together, they were chaos.
Together, they were balance.
At night, when the castle slumbered and the fires burned low, they would sneak into the highest towers and tell stories. She would speak of her father's glory on the battlefield. He would whisper of the voice in the wind that sometimes called his name.
"Do you hear it?" he once asked, eyes cast to the stars.
Xala frowned. "No."
He turned to her, unsure. "But… I thought maybe…"
And she took his hand.
"Even if I can't," she said, "I'll walk with you anyway. Even if the wind turns against us."
Saviik didn't answer. But that night, the brazier beside them flared high — unbidden, unfed.
And miles away, in the ruins of a forgotten temple, an ancient seal cracked just a little more.
On the eve of his tenth name day, it happened.
During a sparring lesson, Saviik was knocked flat by Virelya — a lesson in humility. The garrison commander never held back, even with her brother. But this time, when he hit the dirt, something shifted.
The ground trembled beneath him.
Not much — just enough to throw off her footing. And when he rose, his voice cracked with pain and frustration…
…and something answered.
It was not a shout. Not a scream.
It was a note. A tone.
One that rippled across the training yard and shattered the edge of Virelya's practice blade.
Silence followed. Then Ennalyn whispered: "The Echo is awakening."
Xala stepped forward, eyes wide. Not with fear. With recognition.
"Saviik…"
And he looked to her — as though he'd seen her not just now, but always. As if she'd been with him long before either of them had names.
That night, alone under the sky, she asked, "What if you're meant for something terrible?"
He answered without hesitation. "Then I won't let it happen. Not alone."
She leaned into him, shoulder to shoulder. "Then I won't let you stand alone."
---
The world was wide.
And the dragons had not yet awakened.
But the bloodlines had crossed.
The Echo had stirred.
And the first fire had taken breath.
Dawn crept across the jagged peaks, spilling pale gold over the frost-bitten forest that surrounded the StormCrown estate. The cold was biting but never cruel; it was a constant companion to those born beneath the vast northern skies, a harsh tutor that demanded strength and resilience.
For the Veynaari, the land was more than home—it was a crucible. From the moment a child could stand, the harsh realities of the world were woven into every lesson, every breath. To survive—and to lead—the young must be tempered like steel forged in the icy waters of the mountain springs.
Saviik and Xala's days began long before the sun had fully claimed the sky. Under the watchful eyes of Lady Yngvara, the StormCrown matriarch and master of war and lore, the two children were awakened by the sharp crack of a wooden blade striking a training post. The sound echoed like thunder through the stone courtyards.
"Discipline is the first echo you must learn to wield," Lady Yngvara's voice was steady, a blend of command and care. "The mind must be as unyielding as the mountains, and the body as swift as the winter winds."
The young Veynaari trained in the sprawling halls and shadowed groves of the estate, where every blade stroke, every footfall, was a dance carved by generations before them. Saviik's frame was already towering, his movements powerful and precise, but Xala matched him with a grace born of fire — every thrust of her spear a flash of flame in the morning mist.
Their lessons were never simple drills. The StormCrown estate's grounds were riddled with natural obstacles—ancient pines to vault, rocky ledges to scale, and bitter streams to cross. These challenges honed their endurance and sharpened their senses, instilling an unbreakable bond between warrior and wild.
Beyond the physical, the training touched deeper echoes — the mystical energies that pulsed beneath the surface of the world. Lady Ennalyn, the scholar of the family, guided them through the first steps of channeling the Echo, the ancient force that linked their souls to the land and their ancestors.
"Listen to the silence between your breaths," she would whisper, "Feel the hum beneath the earth. The Echo is not a tool, but a song — a memory of power and purpose."
Saviik found the resonance of the Echo within himself like a quiet ember, slow to glow but impossible to extinguish. Xala's fire flared bright and wild, her affinity fierce and untamed, a reflection of her tempestuous spirit.
Training was also a test of heart and loyalty. The clans were bound by ancient oaths, and the strength of their unity depended on trust forged in fire. Each session ended with lessons in honor, respect, and the weight of legacy — for they were not just warriors, but heirs to a destiny that could shape or shatter realms.
One cold afternoon, as snowflakes danced like silver shards through the air, Saviik and Xala stood on the edge of the estate's high cliff, overlooking the vast expanse of the northern wilds. The wind tugged at their cloaks, carrying with it the distant cries of dragons—reminders of the ancient power that slept beneath the mountains.
"We are more than children," Xala said, her voice steady despite the chill. "We are the flame and the storm."
Saviik nodded, feeling the Echo thrumming beneath his skin, a promise of strength yet to be fully realized.
Together, they were bound to the fate of the Seven Clans—born from fire and ice, destined to rise or fall in the dance of shadows and light.
And far to the east, in the ruins of blackened stone, something began to stir… and remember his name.