The Blade Of Asher Storms

“Stormbearer,” the voice rasped, low and sharp, cutting through the howl of the wind that battered the cliffs of Valtheris’ northern coast. “That’s what they call you, ain’t it?”

Kael Dorian stopped dead on the creaking pier, his boots sinking into the sea-slicked wood, his cloak whipping like a torn sail behind him. The Stormreaver Blade, strapped across his back, pulsed faintly, its sickly green glow flickering in sync with the distant rumble of thunder. His hand twitched toward the hilt, years of blood-soaked instinct screaming that no one spoke that name without intent. He turned slowly, dark eyes narrowing against the sting of salt spray, and found the speaker leaning against a salt-crusted shack at the pier’s end. A wiry man, cloaked in patched leather, his face half-hidden by a hood, fingers toying with a dagger at his belt.

“Who’s asking?” Kael’s voice was low, rough as the gravel underfoot, carrying the weight of too many sleepless nights. He stepped closer, his shadow stretching long across the warped boards, the wind tugging harder at his cloak. The air crackled faintly, a spark of something unnatural that made the stranger’s eyes widen.

The man didn’t flinch, though his fingers tightened on the dagger. “Just a sailor with ears, mate. Heard tales from Kresh to Varnholt. They say you cut down a dozen men in a blink, called lightning from a clear sky. Say that blade of yours”—he nodded toward the Stormreaver, its glow seeping through the leather sheath “ain’t just steel. Say it’s cursed.”

Kael’s jaw clenched, the blade’s whispers stirring in his mind, soft and venomous. "Strike him. Let the storm rise."

He forced the voice down, his chest tight. “People talk too much,” he said, stepping past the man, his shoulder brushing just close enough to send a warning. “Mind your own business, sailor.”

The man chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Business, eh? You walk into Skalvir with that thing, you’re everyone’s business. Stormbearer or not, you’re marked.”

Kael didn’t answer, his strides long and deliberate as he left the pier behind, the sailor’s words chasing him like the wind. Skalvir’s port sprawled ahead, a tangle of ramshackle shacks and crooked taverns, its people as weathered as the cliffs that loomed over the town. Fishermen glanced up from their nets, their eyes sharp with suspicion, while sailors stumbling from alehouses whispered to each other, their gazes lingering on the blade. *Stormbearer*. The name clung to him, born in a blood-soaked tavern in Kresh where a drunk had seen him unleash the blade’s power, the air splitting with lightning he hadn’t meant to summon. Now, it followed him across continents, a shadow heavier than the cursed steel on his back.

The Stormreaver wasn’t just a weapon. Forged from the bones of a slain god, its power was a living thing, clawing at his mind, feeding on blood and chaos. Every swing cost him a piece of himself, and the weight of it pressed harder than the leather-wrapped hilt against his calloused palm. He could feel it now, humming softly, as if it knew he was back in Valtheris, the fractured kingdom where its legend had begun. Kael had no love for this place, with its warlords and fanatics, but he had a job to do. A blood-sealed Royal Decree, tucked inside his cloak, commanded him to find an exiled princess he’d never met. Serenya Nightfall. A name that carried as much weight as his own, though for reasons he didn’t fully understand.

He’d been in a war-torn camp in Varnholt when the dying king pressed the decree into his hands, blood bubbling at his lips. “Find her,” the old man had rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “Marry her. The Celestial Gates… only her bloodline…” The words had faded into a death rattle, leaving Kael with a parchment stained crimson and a mission he didn’t want. The Celestial Gates were a myth to most, ancient portals said to hold the power to reshape the world—or burn it to ash. Serenya was the key, exiled for reasons no one spoke plainly, and Kael was bound to her by a dead man’s will.

The memory gnawed at him as he turned down a narrow alley, the wind chasing him through Skalvir’s maze of leaning buildings. He didn’t want this—neither the decree nor the princess nor the prophecy that seemed to coil tighter with every step. But Kael Dorian wasn’t a man who ran from duty, no matter the cost. He’d learned that lesson young, in the ashes of his village, when he’d picked up a sword and sworn never to be powerless again.

The alley spilled into a small square, where a stone watchtower loomed over cluttered market stalls. The border guard’s post. Kael’s hand brushed the decree inside his cloak, its wax seal rough against his fingers. He scanned the square: a merchant haggling over barrels of fish, a woman selling charms that promised protection from storms, a pair of sailors eyeing him like they knew his name. The air felt heavy, not just with the coming storm but with the weight of their gazes. *Stormbearer*. Unspoken, but he felt it in every glance.

Inside the watchtower, the air was stale, thick with damp stone and old parchment. The guard, a grizzled man with a scar splitting his left eyebrow, sat behind a cluttered desk, his armor creaking as he leaned forward. “Papers,” he grunted, not looking up from the ledger he was scrawling in.

Kael slid the decree across the desk, the blood-red seal catching the lamplight. The guard’s eyes flicked to it, then to Kael, then to the Stormreaver’s faint glow. He unfolded the parchment slowly, his scarred brow furrowing as he read. “King Valthar’s mark,” he said, voice low, almost reverent, but with a tremor of unease. “You’re Kael Dorian?”

Kael nodded, his face unreadable. “I am.”

The guard leaned back, his chair creaking, studying Kael like a man sizing up a wolf. “And that’s the blade they talk about.” Not a question. His gaze lingered on the Stormreaver, its light casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. “The decree says you’re to wed the princess. Serenya Nightfall. Exiled seven years ago for…” He hesitated, as if the words were too dangerous to speak. “Reasons not written here.”

“Then you don’t need to know them,” Kael said, his tone flat but sharp enough to cut through the guard’s curiosity. “Just tell me where to find her.”

The guard snorted, folding the decree and sliding it back. “Not that simple, mercenary. Valtheris ain’t what it was when Valthar ruled. The kingdom’s split—warlords, fanatics, all fighting over scraps. The Veilborn, they’re the worst. Hunting anything tied to the old prophecies. And you, with that blade? You’re a beacon to them.”

Kael’s hand rested on the hilt, the blade’s whispers stirring again. *They will come. Let them.* He shoved the voice down, focusing on the guard. “I didn’t ask for a history lesson. Where is she?”

The guard’s eyes narrowed, but he relented. “Last I heard, Serenya’s hiding in the Ashen Peaks, with what’s left of her loyalists. Dangerous country, crawling with fire drakes and worse. You’ll need more than that blade to get through.”

Kael took the decree, tucking it back inside his cloak. “I’ll manage.”

The guard leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Listen, Stormbearer. I don’t know what you’re chasing, but that blade’s trouble. And the princess? She’s not just some exiled royal. Her blood’s tied to the Celestial Gates. You walk this path, you’re not just fighting men. You’re fighting gods.”

Kael’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Let them come.”

He turned and strode out, the guard’s words echoing in his ears. The square outside was busier now, the storm’s approach driving merchants to pack their stalls. The wind howled louder, carrying the scent of rain and something darker, like the blade’s own hunger. Kael felt it stir again, its whispers sharper now, urging him to draw it, to let the storm break. He clenched his fists, forcing the urge down. He’d spilled enough blood in Varnholt, in Kresh, in every cursed corner of this world. He wouldn’t let the blade rule him here.

But as he stepped into the alley, a shadow moved ahead—a cloaked figure, too quick to be a coincidence. Kael’s hand went to the hilt, the Stormreaver humming eagerly. The air crackled, a single spark of lightning dancing across his knuckles. Whoever was hunting him, they’d picked the wrong day. The storm was coming, and Kael Dorian was its heart.

He followed the shadow, his boots silent on the cobblestones, the blade’s whispers growing louder. Skalvir’s alleys twisted like a labyrinth, but Kael had hunted men in worse places. The figure darted around a corner, and Kael quickened his pace, the wind at his back like a living thing. He rounded the bend and found the alley empty, save for a single dagger glinting on the ground, its blade etched with a symbol he didn’t recognize—a crescent moon pierced by a thorn.

The Veilborn.

Kael’s blood ran cold. The guard’s warning hadn’t been idle. The fanatics were already here, and they wanted the Stormreaver. Or his head. Or both. He picked up the dagger, its weight familiar, its edge sharp enough to draw blood with a touch. The blade pulsed again, its whispers a chorus now, urging him to fight, to kill, to unleash the storm within.

“Not yet,” he muttered, tucking the dagger into his belt. He’d find Serenya, deliver the decree, and unravel this cursed prophecy. But first, he’d survive Skalvir. The wind roared, and Kael Dorian walked into the gathering storm, a man chained by fate, fighting to keep the chaos at bay.