Snowfall never stopped in the northern wilds of Arktika.
Even in silence, the wind howled like a mourning widow, and the trees groaned beneath the weight of frost and time.
But within the heart of the Silverwoods, inside a worn wooden hut, there was warmth.
Not from fire.
Not from magic.
But from something older… and far more dangerous.
---
The boy—unnamed by the world, known only to his father as "Kalen"—had grown in secret for three winters.
He did not speak, not a single word.
But he understood.
Everything.
---
At night, when the wind died and the trees stopped whispering, Kalen would stare out through the ice-flecked window.
His red eyes glowed faintly in the dark—soft, but unnatural.
He watched the moon, now pale and whole, with a gaze too knowing for a child.
His father, Eryk, did what he could.
He hunted.
He fished frozen rivers.
He told stories of the mother Kalen would never know, brushing the boy's hair gently with hands that once held swords.
But even Eryk could sense it—his son was not ordinary.
Sometimes, when Kalen cried, the snow outside stopped falling.
Sometimes, when wolves approached the cabin, they turned and fled—yelping as if they had seen a god.
And once… just once… when Eryk had returned home bloodied by a bear, Kalen had touched his wound—
—and the flesh had closed, smooth as if nothing had ever pierced it.
They Were Not Alone
It began with whispers in the trees.
At first, Eryk thought it was the wind.
Then he heard words—strange syllables in a language he didn't know, but that his son seemed to understand.
The animals began to behave differently.
Birds no longer sang near the hut.
The forest grew quiet.
The world was watching.
And so was something else.
---
One night, while Kalen slept, Eryk stepped outside to gather wood.
The snow crunched beneath his boots.
The sky was clear—too clear. The stars didn't blink; they stared.
And then he saw it.
Between the trees, at the edge of the clearing, stood a figure.
Cloaked in black.
Face hidden beneath a veil of shadow and frost.
Not breathing. Not moving.
Just watching.
> "He is not yours," the figure whispered, though its mouth did not move.
"The boy does not belong to the living… or the dead."
Eryk reached for his axe.
But when he blinked—the figure was gone.
---
Inside the hut, Kalen sat upright in bed.
His eyes glowed like coals.
And in a voice not his own, he murmured:
> "They've found me."
The world was not blind.
It only pretended to be.
But now, the illusion was cracking.
In the far reaches of forgotten temples, in vaults beneath golden palaces, in the minds of dreaming seers and cursed prophets—
something had changed.
> A heartbeat.
A ripple.
A scream, echoing still.
---
Across the World…
In the Crimson Cathedral of Velmora, the High Arcanist dropped his tome.
The ancient scrolls around him burst into flame, reacting to mana that surged wild and uncontrolled.
The stained-glass windows—depicting angels and gods—bled red.
Literally.
> "The Weave of Mana has been pierced," he whispered, staring at the dancing fire.
"Something unnatural… something older than the weave itself."
---
In the Black Fortress of the Sword Saints, deep in the mountains of Serrakai, a training ground trembled.
A young disciple, mid-swing, dropped his blade as a violent aura shockwave coursed through the stone walls.
The Grandmaster, meditating for a century in silence, opened his eyes.
> "A child of war… born not of sword or spell,
but of something more primal. Blood."
"And it calls."
In the Divine Spire of Lirien, where only the faithful may tread, the statues wept tears of light.
Priests fell to their knees.
A nameless divine flame extinguished itself for the first time in millennia.
The High Oracle woke from her dreamless slumber, choking on her own breath, and carved a single word into the marble floor with her bare finger:
> "Bloodborn."