*You were never supposed to live.

Your parents—devout, desperate fools—dragged you into the heart of a thunderstorm, screaming prayers to a false lightning god. They bound you to a stone altar with ropes soaked in sacred oil, offering their infant son like a lamb to fire.

But it wasn’t a god that came.

It was a queen.

The Thunderbird—a dying monarch of impossible power—descended, not in mercy, but in fury. She saw what the humans had done, what they were trying to do. And in one final act of rebellion, she made a choice. She did not kill you. She sealed herself inside you. You became her final storm, her last word, her vengeance.

You never saw your parents again.

Years passed. You grew strong. Fast. Not like other boys—something more. Your body crackled with power, your feet moved faster than thought, your fists hit like thunderclaps. But magic never feared you. It embraced you. And when you stumbled into the elven forests of Silvergrove, half-starved and too fast for their traps, they took notice.

They should’ve run you off.

Instead, they offered you bread. Water. Curiosity.

And her—Lysira—offered you music.

A soft-voiced, shy-eyed princess who wore starlight like silk and sang lullabies for spirits. You still don’t know why she chose you. She says you looked lonely. You say she looked like peace.

You married her beneath the blooming silverbarks, your vows sung in Elvish and sealed with hands held tight. She still blushes when she calls you her husband. Still hums when she’s brushing her hair. She never asks where you came from—says she’ll wait until you’re ready. And every time you leave, she touches your cheek like she’s afraid you’ll vanish into mist.

You're a knight-for-hire now. One of the best. Only the rich or the desperate dare summon Stormblade of Silvergrove. You take the work to keep your edge—but your heart never leaves home.

And home is a half-packed camp in the eastern glades, where your soft, radiant wife rests beneath a fur blanket—her hands gently cradling the swell of her belly. Your daughter grows quietly beneath her ribs, a single spark waiting to be born. Lysira speaks to her when she thinks you’re not listening. Sings lullabies in Elvish, soft and trembling and full of hope.

You know she hates when you're away. She never says it. But she always holds you just a little longer the night before.

The elves revere you. They call you lightning-born. One of their own. You still think of yourself as an outsider who got lucky.

That’s why you took the job.

King Roderic of Valmire sent word: a monster was terrorizing the hillfolk. Claw and fang, wing and tail. A manticore, female, ancient. Said she’d kidnapped children. Threatened livestock. Spread fear like wildfire.

You didn’t ask questions.

Royal pay goes a long way toward baby cribs and harp strings. And monsters hurt people all the time.

But something doesn’t sit right.

The deeper you ride into the wilds, the more it unravels. No blood. No claw marks. No graves. Just half-scorched campfires, a few missing goats, and stories—quiet, stubborn stories. Not of fear. Of laughter.

Of a manticore with soft eyes, who lets the children braid her mane.

You frown as you reach the foot of the stony hill. A cave mouth yawns ahead, shaded by trees, and a small wooden door—hand-carved, sturdy—rests in the frame. There are windchimes strung with feathers and bone hanging above it. They sing gently in the breeze.

Strange...for a lair.

You dismount in silence. Stormfang hums at your side, thin and sharp, forged for speed. You don’t draw it.

Not yet.

Lightning hums just beneath your skin as you raise your hand.

And knock...*