Xylos pov:
The fjords gleamed like silver beneath the first touch of dawn, the mist curling around the pines like ghostly fingers. Xylos stood at the edge of the frozen lake, his axe resting against the snow-dusted ground. Beside him, Fyra shifted, her hand instinctively resting over the swell of her belly.
The village was alive with quiet industry, but here, by the lake, the world felt smaller, slower, fragile. Xylos's thoughts clung to the prophecy, to Kaelen, to the child growing within Fyra.
The weight of destiny pressed down like winter ice.
From the treeline, a shadow moved— , it was the seer. His tattered robes whispered against the snow, eyes glittering like shards of frost. He stopped before them, his staff tapping the ice with a hollow rhythm.
"The gods have spoken," the seer, said, voice carrying across the frozen water. "They have whispered the name of the child. If a boy, he will be called… Aelor. If a girl… Lyra. But heed this: the winds of fate swirl around this child already. Choices, decisions, and blood will shape them long before their first breath."
Xylos's jaw tightened. Aelor… the name sounded like thunder in his chest.
Fyra exhaled slowly, warmth spilling across his hand. "Aelor," she whispered, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "It feels… right."
Eirik lifted his staff, tracing runes in the frozen air. A shimmer appeared on the lake's surface: two glowing figures entwined with fire and frost. Xylos leaned forward, heart tightening as he recognized the unmistakable aura of Kaelen in one figure, the other cloaked in his own frost-lit presence.
"The storm listens," the seer, said, voice low. "And the storm is coming."
Before Xylos could reply, a voice broke through the silence.
"And what of the plans?"
Rurik emerged from the treeline, eyes bright with mischief and curiosity, his fur-lined cloak swaying. He glanced at the shimmering vision, then at Xylos and Fyra. "Do you raise a king? A warrior? Or a god?"
Xylos met his gaze, solemn. "We raise a protector. One who will stand against the fire that threatens all we hold."
Rurik chuckled, tilting his head. "Protection is noble… but what if the storm has its own plans?"
The wind gusted across the lake, carrying Eirik's parting words. "Name the child… and watch the skies. The storm will answer."
Xylos clenched his fists. Somewhere in the fjords, Kaelen's shadow moved, his dragon circling like a dark omen. The world had shifted. The future had begun. And the storm—no longer a metaphor—was coming for them all.
Kaelen's pov:
Kaelen crouched atop a ridge, dark eyes scanning Xylos's village through a spyglass. Kaelen has been spying on his brother keeping an eye on him. The Smoke rose from chimneys, laughter floated on the wind, and in the center, he glimpsed Xylos standing tall, a warrior-king in every sense—but today, a father-to-be.
Astrid appeared beside him, hand pressed to her stomach, and Kaelen's eyes darkened. "He will not have the future he dreams of," Kaelen muttered, voice low, almost reverent in its cruelty. "A son… a rival in blood as well as in power. The gods have given me a challenge worthy of my strength."
A loyal scout returned, kneeling before Kaelen. "My lord… your brother's wife is in labor. The child—he is born."
Kaelen's grin was sharp, predatory. "A boy," he hissed. "Our heirs are born on the same day… the game begins anew. Prepare the empire."
Xylos POV – Evening
That night, beneath the glow of torches and the hum of winter winds, Xylos held Aelor for the first time. Small, warm, and perfect. He looked down at his son, feeling the fragility of life and the weight of destiny in the same heartbeat.
Meanwhile, across the fjords, Kaelen's laughter echoed in the darkness as Astrid placed his son in his arms, the firelight reflecting in the boy's wide, curious eyes. A god-king and a father.
The screen of night stretched between them. Two sons, born the same day. Two brothers, fathers, rivals.
Somewhere in the distance, Eirik whispered to the wind: "So begins the true storm."
Both Xylos and Kaelen are fathers, the heirs born the same day. The future is no longer just about conquest; it is personal, and the storm is just beginning.
Xylos POV – The Night of the birth of his son
The longhouse was alive with firelight and the smell of herbs. Women moved swiftly, voices hushed yet urgent, and Fyra's cries echoed through the timbered hall like the clash of battle.
Xylos stood near the hearth, fists clenched, every muscle taut. He had led men into war, had stood beneath skies torn by lightning, but nothing felt as unbearable as waiting.
Then—silence.
A heartbeat later, the air broke with a newborn's cry.
The midwife turned, her arms cradling a small, red-faced child swaddled in wool. "A son!" she cried. "Your queen has given you a son."
The world narrowed. Xylos crossed the floor in three strides, his breath hitching as the bundle was pressed into his arms. Tiny fingers reached blindly, grasping at the air, and Xylos's chest swelled with something he had never felt before: a love fierce as steel, fragile as glass.
"Aelor," he whispered. "My son. My blood. My heir."
Fyra, pale but smiling, reached for them. Xylos knelt at her side, placing the child against her breast. She kissed the boy's head, her eyes shimmering. "He will be strong. Stronger than both of us."
Xylos nodded, though unease shadowed his heart. The seer's words haunted him—the storm listens.
Outside, the drums of celebration began, warriors and villagers roaring the boy's name into the night: "Aelor! Aelor!"
And yet, as Xylos looked into the flames, he felt the shadow of another fire.
Kaelen POV:
Far from the laughter of Xylos's longhouse, another cry split the night.
Astrid lay in a blackened hall, walls painted with soot and runes of fire. Around her, Kaelen's warriors kept a reverent silence. Their god-king demanded it.
The midwife trembled as she placed the infant in Kaelen's arms. A boy, his eyes wide and unblinking, catching the firelight as if hungry for it.
Kaelen stared down, lips curling into a grin both triumphant and terrifying.
"Born in fire," he murmured. "Just as I was reborn. A son for a god. A prince of flame."
Astrid reached weakly for the child, but Kaelen pulled him close to his chest, rising to his full height before his warband.
"Behold! My blood, my heir. As I am god-king, so too will he rule when my fire burns to ash. No man will match him. No brother will rival him."
The warband roared their approval, voices crashing like thunder. "God-son! God-son!"
Yet even as Kaelen basked in their worship, paranoia coiled around him. He remembered whispers from his spies—Xylos's wife was also with child. And if the gods had truly cursed him, the child would be born tonight.
His jaw tightened. He would not allow fate to balance the scales. He would burn fate itself before he let it mock him.
Xylos POV:
The next morning, Xylos summoned his closest warriors and elders. The hall brimmed with smoke and anticipation. Aelor slept in Fyra's arms, his tiny breaths barely audible above the crackle of fire.
the seer, sat near the flames, his hollow eyes unblinking.
"Your brother knows," the seer rasped. "As the gods bore sons of thunder and fire, so too have you both been given sons on the same night. Do you not see? The storm has already chosen. Their lives are bound. One will rise, one will fall."
The words chilled the hall, but Xylos stood tall. "Then we must make ready. Not just for war, but for peace. Kaelen builds his empire on fear and flame. I will build mine on trust, on alliances strong enough to withstand even gods."
Rurik leaned forward, grinning slyly. "Alliances, aye. But what tribe will bend the knee to words, when Kaelen has dragons?"
"Not knee," Xylos said firmly. "Hand. They will not kneel—they will stand with us. We are not subjects. We are brothers in blood, bound in fate. That is how we endure."
Silence followed, broken only by Fyra's soft humming as she rocked the infant. Some warriors exchanged doubtful glances. Others nodded, hearts stirred by Xylos's vision.
The Seer's voice slithered through the smoke. "The storm will not wait for diplomacy. Kaelen will come. The gods whisper that he already moves."
Kaelen POV:
Kaelen stood on the charred mound where he had first declared himself god-king, the dragon circling overhead like a living shadow. His warlords knelt in the ash, but Kaelen's gaze was far away, fixed on the horizon.
"He has a son," Kaelen muttered, voice low but venomous. "The gods mock me. They give my brother what is mine by right. But his child will not live to steal the fire meant for my blood."
One warlord, bold enough to speak, asked, "What would you have us do, lord? The babe is no threat yet."
Kaelen's eyes blazed, madness flickering like lightning. "Every flame begins with a spark. I will not wait for his spark to grow. Send spies. Send fire. If the gods wish to test me, I will answer with ash."
The warlords exchanged uneasy glances. Some bowed. Others hesitated, their loyalty strained by Kaelen's cruelty.
Astrid, pale but defiant, spoke from her seat. "He is your brother. His child is your blood."
Kaelen turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "My brother is no man. He is a shadow of me. And his blood is my enemy."
His son stirred in her arms, and Kaelen softened, kissing the infant's forehead. "You are the true heir. The only heir. The world will kneel before you, or it will burn."
As snow fell across the fjords, two infants slept in two different halls—Aelor, swaddled in fur, his breath misting softly in the cold, and Kaelen's unnamed son, cradled in Astrid's arms beneath the glow of fire.
Both born on the same night. Both heirs to gods and kings.
And in the ruins of an ancient grove, the old idols stirred. Stone eyes cracked open, whispers spilling into the wind.
"The storm has chosen… and it will not be denied."