Thunder crawled across the sky like a beast hunting for prey.
In a valley carved between frozen cliffs, a boy huddled beside a dying fire. The storm had chased him since dawn—black clouds rolling low, whispering in a language that made his bones shiver.
Zank was only seven winters old, but his eyes were already wrong.
One shone the pale blue of northern ice, the other burned faintly silver, like moonlight reflected in water. The villagers said that was the mark of the Reaper's son.
He didn't remember his father—only a shadow that stood by his cradle the night his mother died. They said she was a shieldmaiden, fierce and wild, who laughed at thunder.
But the storm that took her away left Zank alive, half orphan, half omen.
The fire hissed as sleet began to fall. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
Zank pressed his hands to his ears.
Stop. The whispers in the wind grew louder—voices from nowhere and everywhere.