The child of wolves (English version)

The birth

Ancient legends, passed down by word of mouth, tell that in times of great turmoil, the Devourer will emerge from the shadows—a formidable and mysterious entity capable of annihilating one of the five prosperous kingdoms, reducing it to smoldering ashes. With three faces, it will spread death and destruction across the world. Its steps will resonate like thunder, and its voice, like a hurricane, will instill terror in even the bravest hearts. Only the kingdom bearing the Morning Star, a legendary celestial body, might have the power to appease this force and restore peace to these once-blessed lands.

This prophecy, carefully inscribed by the scribes of the White Temple, a religious order that influences the highest spheres of the Heliore Empire, has long been dismissed as a fable. It's thought to merely reinforce the royal family's sacred aura. The White Temple, with its towering columns of immaculate marble and golden frescoes depicting the gods' histories, remains a place of deep silence, broken only by the murmur of prayers and the soft steps of priests in white robes. For the inhabitants of the kingdom, this legend is just another tale, one to frighten children. Until one particularly frigid winter night breathes life into the ancient belief.

As the full moon, cold and relentless, reached its zenith, bathing the frozen earth in silver light, a young boy was born. This was no ordinary night; the wind howled through the bare branches of the Nightblade Forest, a dense and mysterious expanse where even the sun struggles to pierce through during the day. The forest, feared for its dangers, was home to creatures with glowing eyes and shadows that flickered, only braved by the boldest. Deep within this darkness, a child was born—a boy with strange eyes, glowing like two stars lost in the infinite blackness. Marked by darkness and storm, he was a living enigma, a silent answer to the prophecy.

It was Virion, the leader of a secluded village in Frosthelm, who discovered this child. Frosthelm, a hamlet buried deep in the vast forest, was isolated, cut off from the outside world by steep mountains and wild rivers. The houses, built from sturdy wood and stone, seemed to merge with the winter landscape, their roofs buried under layers of snow. The villagers, though warm among themselves, were cautious of strangers and wary of signs from the otherworld. They quickly gathered around the infant, their weathered faces twisted with worry.

"He will bring misfortune to our village!" cried an elder woman, her trembling hands clutching her shawl against the cold.

This old woman, known as Mother Ysolda, had seen many winters pass. Her sharp eyes had witnessed numerous births and deaths, and her opinion, widely respected, sowed fear among the villagers. A younger man, broad-shouldered and thick-bearded, echoed her concern:

"His eyes! He is not human!"

Murmurs grew louder, rising like a tide of concern and fear that swept through the crowd. But Virion, tall and imposing, his face marked by battles and responsibility, spoke with a calm that demanded respect. His ice-blue eyes fixed on the crowd with firm resolve.

"Calm yourselves. He's just a child. We are alone in this forest. I will take responsibility for him if I must, but I will not leave him abandoned in this cursed place."

His voice resonated like a promise, cutting through the uneasy silence that had gripped the group. Virion was a natural leader, able to calm even the fiercest storms, those of nature and of men's hearts. As his words settled, the child suddenly burst into laughter—a sound that was crystalline, almost unreal, and defied the surrounding darkness. Then, like a distant echo, the wolves of the mountains began to howl in unison, their cries rolling through the valley like a haunting melody.

The village oracle, a mysterious woman with silver hair and piercing eyes, stepped forward. Cloaked in a long black fur cape adorned with raven feathers, each of her movements seemed filled with ancient wisdom.