The pyre still reeked of burnt flesh when Kaelen made his move.
At dawn, three blasts of the horn ripped through the village, harsh and jagged. Men staggered from huts, hands on blades. Women pulled their children close. But it wasn't raiders at the gates—it was Kaelen.
He stood before the longhouse, a dozen young warriors at his back, their faces painted in streaks of blood and ash. Each carried sharpened steel. Their eyes burned with the same fever as his.
Kaelen raised his sword high, its edge catching the pale light. "The Bearslayer is ash. His time is over. I will not rot in a hall ruled by cowards. If this tribe will not follow me, I will build my own. Stronger. Fiercer. Carved from fire and bone!"
Gasps. Murmurs. Fear spreading like wildfire.
"You would tear the tribe apart?" an elder spat, spittle clinging to his beard.
Kaelen sneered, stepping close. "The tribe is already broken. You cling to a dying fire. I will light a new one."
From the crowd, a voice rang out, hard with fury.
"You murdered him."
Xylos shoved through the mass, his jaw tight, eyes like ice. He leveled his blade at his brother. "You slit the Bearslayer's throat and pissed on his memory. You killed the man who made us."
The crowd erupted, shouts and curses mixing with gasps.
Kaelen only laughed—a sharp, ugly sound that scraped at the ears. "And what of it, brother? Do you think these people give a shit whose blade spilled the old man's blood? They care who will keep them alive. Who will lead them to plunder and flesh and feasts. They know it isn't you."
He leaned close enough that Xylos smelled the mead on his breath, his voice dropping to a growl. "You were born soft. The gods split the storm to give us strength, but only one of us took it. And it wasn't you."
Xylos's chest burned, grief twisting into rage. His knuckles whitened on his sword. "You've damned yourself, Kaelen."
Kaelen stepped back, lifting his arms as if addressing the gods. "I have freed myself." His voice roared across the village. "Those who crave more than scraps—come with me! Tonight, we leave this place. We will carve kingdoms from the bones of our enemies. We will take what is ours—blood, gold, flesh, glory!"
A guttural roar answered him. Spears slammed against shields. Young warriors surged forward, their eyes wild. Women pulled their children into the crowd to follow. Even some scarred veterans spat in the dirt and stepped to Kaelen's side.
By dusk, nearly half the tribe had abandoned the longhouse, trailing after Kaelen into the forest, their torches disappearing into the dark like hellfire sinking into the earth.
Those who remained stood in the square, hollow-eyed. Their world had been cleaved in two.
That night, the longhouse stank of smoke, sweat, and fear. Elders and warriors huddled in the glow of the fire, voices sharp with panic.
"Without Kaelen's men, we are crippled," one snarled, pounding his fist on the table. "If raiders strike, we're carrion."
Another spat into the flames. "Better to follow the bastard than starve here like dogs."
Xylos's voice cut through the noise like a blade. "Bend to him? After he drove steel through the Bearslayer's chest? After he desecrated the man who gave us everything?"
The longhouse fell silent. Every face turned toward him. His fury was not wild like Kaelen's. It was cold, controlled—like the crack of ice splitting stone.
Freya stepped forward, her voice quiet but firm. "They look to you, Xylos. If you do not take the axe, the people will scatter—or worse, crawl to Kaelen's fire."
Xylos's chest tightened. He had spent years avoiding the crown, stepping back while Kaelen consumed the spotlight. But now the choice was gone.
His hand closed around the Bearslayer's axe, still caked with dried blood. The weight of it pulled at his arm like chains. He looked across the fire at his people—their hollow eyes, their shaking hands, their fear.
And he spoke.
"I will not bow to a kinslayer. I will not let this tribe rot. Kaelen has taken half of us, but he will not take our honor. We will endure the storm. And when the day comes, we will face him—stone against flame. And we will break him."
The words hit like thunder. Some muttered prayers. Others gripped their weapons tighter. Fear still lingered, but something else stirred beneath it—anger, sharp and cutting.
Skarde's crooked grin split the silence. "So it begins. The stone rises. The flame burns. And the gods watch, hungry for blood."
Xylos tightened his grip on the axe, feeling the Bearslayer's ghost pressing on his shoulders. He knew what waited ahead—war, betrayal, rivers of blood. But he also knew this: he could no longer be the quiet brother.
The storm-born had chosen their roads.
And both were painted in red.
Xylos's POV
The longhouse was quieter after the council had scattered. Shadows crawled along the walls as the fire guttered low. Xylos sat alone, Eirik's axe heavy in his hands, the weight of the tribe pressing down on his shoulders like iron.
He didn't hear her at first—only the soft shuffle of feet. Freya.
She moved closer, her eyes shimmering in the firelight, her face marked by the day's grief but her body taut with resolve.
"You spoke like a leader today," she whispered. "But your eyes are still full of doubt."
"I am no king," Xylos muttered. "Just a man holding back the tide."
Her hand slid over his, steadying the axe between them. "A man who doesn't crave power is the one most worthy of it. That's why Eirik favored you, even if he never said it aloud."
"Show me you're more than stone. Show me you're flesh and blood."
Her mouth found his, soft at first, then hungry, desperate. Years of restraint crumbled. He dropped the axe and pulled her against him, their bodies colliding with a force born of grief and longing.
The world outside—Kaelen's betrayal, the tribe's fracture, the looming war—faded until there was only this moment...
(Fades in Black.)
Later that night they lay tangled in furs, the storm outside whispering against the longhouse walls. Freya's fingers traced the scar across his chest, her voice barely more than a breath.
"You will lead them, Xylos. Not because you want to, but because you must. And when the time comes, I will stand by your side."
Xylos closed his eyes, the weight of destiny pressing heavier than ever. But for the first time, he did not flinch from it.
That Same Night — Kaelen's POV
The forest was alive with firelight and madness. Torches crackled. Drums pounded. The young warriors who had followed him laughed like wolves drunk on blood.
Kaelen stood before them, his chest bare, streaked with painted ash and crimson. A crude altar of bones and skulls rose behind him.
He raised his sword high, the flames licking the steel. "Tonight, we break chains! Tonight, we burn the old ways! Eirik is ash, and soon the world will be too!"
The crowd roared, stamping feet, clashing blades against shields.
Kaelen's eyes gleamed wild. "The fjords are nothing! The tribes are nothing! We are storm-born—chosen! The gods spit us into this world not to bow, not to kneel, but to RULE! We will take what we want—women, gold, kingdoms, even the gods themselves will kneel before us!"
One of his men dragged forward a thrall—an enemy taken in raids, bound and trembling. Kaelen seized the man by the hair, forced him to his knees before the fire. Without hesitation, he drew his blade across the man's throat. Hot blood sprayed across the altar, across Kaelen's chest.
The warriors howled, raising their weapons.
Kaelen licked the blood from his blade, eyes blazing like a mad prophet. "This is our oath! Blood for blood, fire for fire, until the world itself bends or breaks!"
The chants rose into a frenzy:
"Storm-born! Storm-born! Storm-born!"
Kaelen grinned, his face painted with death and destiny. In his heart, he no longer saw himself as a brother, a son, or even a man.
He saw himself as a god.
The next day, Skarde took him to the hut at the edge of the village. Smoke curled from its roof, and the stench of herbs and rot clung to the air. Inside, the Seer waited—an old crone with eyes clouded white, her voice a rasp like dry leaves.
"You come," she said, as though she had been expecting him.
"I need to know," Xylos said. "How do I stop my brother before he destroys us all?"
The Seer chuckled, low and cruel. She threw bones into the fire. They cracked and hissed, filling the hut with acrid smoke.
The flames flared—and visions surged before Xylos's eyes.
Kaelen stood on a throne of bones, his chest bare, his followers kneeling as though before a god. Fire licked his skin, but he did not burn. His laughter shook the heavens.
Then the vision shifted. Xylos stood in a ruined hall, corpses strewn at his feet. Warriors bowed to him, but his hands dripped with blood not his own. His eyes, once calm, were hard as iron.
The Seer's voice slithered through the smoke.
"Two kings. One crown. The storm does not choose both. Brother will slay brother, and only blood will end the storm."
Xylos staggered back, his chest tight. The fire burned low, leaving only smoke and silence.
The Seer smiled, toothless and cruel.
"The gods have spoken. The path is written. You cannot escape it."
Xylos stumbled from the hut into the gray daylight, his breath sharp in his lungs. Freya stood waiting, her eyes searching his face.
"What did you see?" she whispered.
He could not speak. In his mind, Kaelen's laughter still echoed, and the weight of the prophecy pressed like chains on his shoulders.
The storm had chosen.
And it demanded blood.
The pyre still reeked of burnt flesh when Kaelen made his move.
At dawn, three blasts of the horn ripped through the village, jagged and violent. Warriors staggered from their huts, hands on steel. Mothers clutched their children. For a heartbeat, all thought it raiders at the gates.
But it was Kaelen.
He stood before the longhouse, a dozen young warriors behind him, their faces streaked in blood and ash. Each carried sharpened blades. Each wore the same fever in their eyes.
Kaelen raised his sword high, its edge catching the pale light.
"The Bearslayer is ash. His time is over. I will not rot in a hall ruled by cowards. If this tribe will not follow me, I will build my own. Stronger. Fiercer. Carved from fire and bone!"
Gasps spread. Murmurs. The sound of fear carried on the cold wind.
"You would tear us apart?" an elder spat, beard bristling.
Kaelen sneered, stepping close enough to reek of mead. "We are already broken. You cling to a dying fire. I will light a new one."
From the crowd, a voice rang sharp with fury.
"You murdered him."
Xylos forced his way forward, his jaw tight, eyes like frost. His blade leveled at his brother's chest.
"You slit the Bearslayer's throat and pissed on his memory. You killed the man who made us."
The crowd erupted—shouts, curses, gasps.
Kaelen only laughed. Ugly. Sharp. "And what of it, brother? Do you think these people care whose blade spilled the old man's blood? They care who will feed them. Who will bring them gold, flesh, glory. And they know it isn't you."
He leaned close, his whisper a growl. "The gods split the storm to give us strength. Only one of us took it."
Xylos's knuckles whitened on his hilt. "You've damned yourself, Kaelen."
Kaelen stepped back, arms raised like a prophet. "No. I have freed myself! Those who crave more than scraps—come with me! Tonight, we leave this place. We will carve kingdoms from the bones of our enemies. We will take what is ours—blood, gold, and fire!"
A guttural roar answered him. Spears slammed against shields. Women dragged children to join him. Scarred veterans spat in the dirt and followed. By dusk, nearly half the tribe had vanished into the trees, their torches bleeding into the forest like sinking stars.
Those who remained stood hollow-eyed in the square. Their world had been cleaved in two.
That night, the longhouse stank of smoke and fear. Elders and warriors argued in the fire's glow.
"Without Kaelen's men, we are crippled!" one snarled, fist on the table. "If raiders strike, we are carrion."
Another spat into the flames. "Better to follow him than starve here like dogs."
Xylos's voice cut through the noise like steel. "Bend to him? After he drove a blade through the Bearslayer's chest? After he slaughtered the man who gave us everything?"
The longhouse fell silent. Every face turned to him.
Freya stepped forward, her voice soft but firm. "They look to you, Xylos. If you do not take the axe, the tribe will scatter—or worse, crawl to Kaelen's fire."
His hand closed around Eirik's blood-crusted axe. The weight dragged at him like chains. He looked at his people—their fear, their hollow eyes—and spoke:
"I will not bow to a kinslayer. Kaelen has stolen half of us, but he will not take our honor. We will endure. And when the day comes, we will face him—stone against flame. And we will break him."
The words struck like thunder. Anger stirred in the room, sharp as flint.
Skarde, the crooked shipwright, gave a dry laugh. "So it begins. The stone rises. The flame burns. And the gods watch, hungry for blood."
Xylos's POV
The longhouse emptied into silence. Shadows crept along the walls. Xylos sat alone, the Bearslayer's axe heavy across his lap.
He didn't hear her at first—only the soft shuffle of feet. Freya.
She moved closer, her eyes shimmering in the firelight, her face marked by grief but her body taut with resolve.
"You spoke like a leader today," she whispered. "But your eyes are still full of doubt."
"I am no king," Xylos muttered. "Just a man holding back the tide."
Her hand slid over his, steadying the axe between them. "A man who does not crave power is the one most worthy of it. That's why Eirik favored you, even if he never said it aloud."
Her voice dropped lower, trembling but fierce.
"Show me you are more than stone. Show me you are flesh and blood."
Her mouth found his—soft at first, then hungry. Desperate.
Years of restraint cracked apart. The axe slipped to the floor. He pulled her close, grief and longing colliding like storm and sea.
The world outside—the betrayal, the fracture, the shadow of war—faded into nothing.
Only this moment remained.
Only them.
(The scene fades to black.)
Later, that night the love birds were inlove. Frya whispered to Xylos's while they laid by each other on the soft blanket next to the fire in the longhouse.
"You will lead them, Xylos. Not because you want to. Because you must. And when the time comes, I will stand by your side."
Xylos closed his eyes. The weight of destiny pressed heavier than ever. But for the first time, he did not flinch.
Meanwhile.....
Kaelen's POV
The forest raged with firelight. Drums thundered. His new tribe feasted and howled like wolves drunk on blood.
Kaelen stood bare-chested before them, painted in ash and crimson. Behind him, a crude altar of bones.
He raised his sword high. "Tonight we break chains! Tonight we burn the old ways! Eirik is ash—and soon the world will be too!"
The crowd roared.
A thrall was dragged forward, bound and trembling. Kaelen seized him by the hair, forced him to his knees before the fire. With a single stroke, he opened his throat. Blood sprayed across the altar.
The warriors howled, stamping feet, blades ringing against shields.
Kaelen licked the blood from his blade, eyes burning. "This is our oath. Blood for blood, fire for fire, until the world itself bends or breaks!"
"Storm-born! Storm-born! Storm-born!" they chanted.
Kaelen grinned, his face painted in death and destiny. In his heart, he no longer saw himself as brother, son, or man.
He saw himself as a god.
At dawn, Skarde led Xylos to a hut at the edge of the village. Smoke curled from its roof. Inside, the Seer waited—an old crone, eyes clouded white.
"You come," she rasped, as if she had been waiting.
"I need to know," Xylos said. His voice was hollow. "How do I stop my brother before he destroys us all?"
The Seer threw bones into the fire. They cracked and hissed. Smoke curled, visions flaring before Xylos's eyes.
Kaelen sat upon a throne of bones, his followers kneeling like worshipers. Flames licked his skin but did not burn. His laughter shook the sky.
Then the vision shifted. Xylos stood in a ruined hall, corpses at his feet. Warriors bowed to him, but his hands dripped blood—not his enemies', but his own kin. His eyes, once calm, were hard as iron.
The Seer's voice coiled through the smoke:
"Two kings. One crown. The storm does not choose both. Brother will slay brother. And only blood will end the storm."
Xylos staggered back. The fire dimmed to smoke. The Seer smiled, toothless and cruel.
"The path is written. You cannot escape it."
He stumbled into the gray daylight. Freya waited, her eyes searching his face.
"What did you see?" she whispered.
Xylos could not answer. Kaelen's laughter still echoed in his mind.
The storm had chosen.
And it demanded blood.