The morning frost still clung to the tips of the pine trees when Xylos and Kaelen stood at the edge of the village, sharpened spears in hand. The older men of the tribe, seasoned by countless battles, moved with the quiet precision of hunters. The boys were no longer children—they were young men, their muscles honed by winters of training and summers spent chasing the prey of the fjord.
Kaelen's fingers twitched along the haft of his spear. "I don't like waiting," he muttered, his voice sharp. "I could charge in and end it before they even see us."
Xylos glanced at him, expression calm. "Patience wins more than strength, brother. The leader taught us that for a reason."
Kaelen scowled but said nothing. The tension between them was as tangible as the mist curling along the frozen ground. Xylos could sense the storm within him, a fire that no training could fully tame.
They had barely crested the hill when they saw him. A man standing crookedly by a fire, robes uneven and eyes glinting with a strange, almost dangerous light. His hair hung in dark tangles, and a crooked smile played at his lips as he waved a hand toward the boys.
"Ah, children of storm and sea," he rasped, voice carrying over the wind. "You grow faster than the tide, but do you know why you run?"
Xylos tilted his head. "Do we know you?"
The man laughed—a high, keening sound that made the hair on Xylos' arms stand on end. "Names are for men who walk ordinary paths. I am called Hrafn. I see what the world hides. I have watched your father's storms, the leader's triumphs, and the fire that will burn between you two."
Kaelen snorted. "Prophecies and riddles. You waste words."
Hrafn's eyes sparkled with an unsettling mirth. "Waste? Perhaps. But only fools ignore the currents beneath the waves. You are gods among men, boys. Born not just to follow, but to rule. But beware—only one will sit the throne. One will rise, one will fall, and the earth itself will remember their deeds."
Xylos exchanged a glance with Kaelen, unease settling in the pit of his stomach. The words struck a chord they could not ignore.
By midday, the tribe had gathered at the treeline, spears and shields ready. The forest beyond whispered of enemies, of raiders whose villages lay ripe for plunder. Xylos moved with quiet precision, observing the flanks and calling instructions in a voice firm yet measured. Kaelen, as always, bristled at following orders.
The first clash came like a storm. Spears met shields, the bark of axes striking wood and bone. Xylos fought with calm efficiency, parrying and countering, while Kaelen leapt into the fray, strikes flying with reckless ferocity. Men cheered, some out of awe, some out of fear.
A scream cut through the clamor. Xylos' head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing. There, surrounded by a small group of raiders, was a young woman, her dark hair matted, eyes wide with terror.
Kaelen hesitated, a flicker of curiosity in his gaze, but then a grin spread across his face. "A prize, then. Let me at them."
"No," Xylos said, lunging forward. "We protect, not kill recklessly!"
He barreled through the skirmish, spear thrusting with practiced precision, clearing a path to the woman. She looked up at him, trembling, and he extended a hand. "Come with me. Now."
Kaelen followed reluctantly, still smirking but restrained by Xylos' presence. The woman took Xylos' hand, and together they slipped through the chaos to safety.
Later, near the embers of the campfire, Hrafn appeared again, leaning on a crooked staff. The boys approached cautiously.
"You see them?" he asked, gesturing toward the villagers they had fought. "The chaos, the fear, the desire to follow strength rather than wisdom. You are the balance. You are the storm that will either cleanse or consume. But one truth remains—only one of you can be king."
Kaelen laughed, a low, dangerous sound. "Then let him try. Let the one who thinks he is king prove it."
Xylos clenched his jaw. "It is not a matter of proving. It is a matter of protecting."
Hrafn's smile widened. "Ah, and yet the threads twist. The future is not written. The world will decide, boys, and the gods themselves will watch."
Night fell over the village, and Xylos tended to the wounded, while Kaelen inspected weapons and dismissed any thought of care.
The young woman from the raid approached, walking slowly through the smoke and firelight. Her gaze met Xylos'. "Thank you," she said softly, voice trembling. "You saved my life."
Xylos gave a small nod, humility etched into every line of his face. Kaelen watched from a distance, his expression unreadable, amusement and irritation mingling in his eyes.
They spoke briefly, exchanging words filled with unspoken emotion—gratitude, curiosity, tension. When she reached out to steady a fallen torch, Xylos' hand brushed hers. A spark of something unspoken flared, the moment lingering—but nothing more. The air seemed charged, full of questions and possibilities. The rest of the world faded as the fire flickered, leaving only the feeling of connection.
From the shadows, Kaelen muttered, almost to himself, "They will follow me. And if he thinks he can lead… he will learn otherwise."
Hrafn emerged silently from the darkened forest edge. "The storm is coming," he said, voice low and terrible. "The world will shake, and the blood of brothers will flow. Choose your path wisely, or the gods themselves will laugh at your failure."
The woman looked from Kaelen to Xylos, worry etched in her features. Xylos' jaw tightened as he realized the weight of what Hrafn had said. The tension between the brothers—already taut—was about to snap.
And somewhere in the distance, the first rumble of the coming storm rolled across the fjord, promising a future none could escape.