Chapter 1: A Crypt's Secret

The wind howled a mournful dirge across the frost-rimmed plains of Drakunia, biting at the stone walls of Volgunder Keep. Nestled in the foothills of the Spinebreaker Mountains, the keep wasn't built for beauty, but for defiance. For generations, the Volgunder family had stood as Drakunia's shield against the savage raiders spilling from the East. Their swords were a fiery promise that the kingdom's heart would never fall. Tonight, however, the only fire was the hearth crackling in the keep's great hall, casting dancing shadows on the ancestral portraits that lined the walls. Each portrait depicted a Volgunder swordmaster, their faces grim, their hands resting on the hilts of legendary blades. All except Kael Volgunder, because no one knows how to describe him.

Liam, the youngest of the Volgunder children, huddled in the shadow of a tapestry depicting the family's founder, Kael Volgunder, a legendary figure wreathed in mystery. At fifteen, he was gangly and awkward, his hands too big for his sleeves, his eyes too wide for his face. Unlike his siblings, who bore the proud Volgunder features—sharp cheekbones, steely gazes, and an aura of unwavering confidence—Liam looked perpetually startled, as if the weight of the family's legacy had landed squarely on his thin shoulders. The truth was, it had.

A mocking laugh echoed through the hall. Liam flinched. His elder brother, Gareth, a towering figure of muscle and arrogance, strode towards him, followed by his twin sisters, Anya and Freya, their smiles sharper than their blades.

"Look at him," Gareth sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Hiding in the shadows, as always. Afraid you'll break a nail, Liam?"

Anya and Freya giggled, their eyes gleaming with amusement. "Perhaps he's practicing his dancing," Anya suggested, twirling her finger in the air. "You know, for when the raiders throw a ball."

Liam's cheeks burned. He knew their taunts were meant to sting, and they always did. He tried to ignore them, focusing on the faded threads of the tapestry. But their words were like shards of ice, piercing his fragile confidence. He had been practicing—not dancing, but swordsmanship. He just failed at it.

"The tournament is in a week, Liam," Freya said, her voice taking on a mock-serious tone. "Are you prepared to shame the family in front of the entire kingdom of Drakunia?"

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken expectations. The Volgunder Tournament was a tradition, a showcase of the family's martial prowess and a recruitment ground for the kingdom's best warriors. Every Volgunder child was expected to participate, to prove their worth and uphold the family's honor.

Gareth, Anya, and Freya had already passed this test in years past, their victories adding to the Volgunder legend. For Liam, it was a looming nightmare. He had a week of training, but he knew that even with all his best efforts, he was likely to fail. He lacked the natural talent...

A distant rumble shook the keep, rattling the windows and silencing laughter. A hush fell over the hall as everyone turned to look at the mountains looming outside.

"Just thunder," Gareth scoffed, but a flicker of unease crossed his face.

Liam felt a strange tremor in his chest, a faint resonance with the rumbling in the distance. He dismissed it as his own anxiety, but a nagging voice whispered in the back of his mind, a voice that spoke of forgotten legends and forbidden powers.

Old tales whispered about a time when magic flowed freely through Drakunia, a time when dragons soared through the skies and humans wielded elemental forces. But those days were long gone, banished by the rise of steel and the unwavering devotion to the sword. Magic was a myth now, a children's story used to scare them into obedience.

As his siblings returned to their training, Liam slipped away, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't face another night of taunts and disappointment. He needed to escape, to find some solace from the crushing weight of expectation.

He crept down the winding stone stairs, past the armory filled with gleaming weapons he could never master, and into the heart of the keep: the Volgunder family crypt. A place of somber reverence, where generations of Volgunder heroes lay in eternal rest. He made his way to the tomb of Kael Volgunder; it was the only place in the keep with actual quiet.

The air grew colder as he approached the tomb. Ice crusted the stone walls, a testament to the ancient magic that was said to linger in this place. According to legends, Kael was more than a great swordsman.

Liam laid his hand on the cold stone of the tomb, his fingers tracing the barely visible runes etched into the surface. Twelve hundred years... a lifetime of whispered legends, each one more fantastical than the last. He didn't know why he was there, not really. Curiosity, perhaps, or a faint echo of something... called him. The stories said Kael Volgunder had defended Drakunia with magic that could freeze the very air, but those were just stories, weren't they? He doubted he would learn anything more about this person if he just stood there, so he took a breath and thought "what was he like?" and with his fingers still against the gravestone, he whispered.

The words barely left his lips when the tomb shuddered violently. A grinding noise echoed through the crypt as the stone lid cracked, then shattered inwards, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air. The dust seemed to swirl with unnatural energy, dancing like miniature blizzards before dissipating, revealing darkness inside.

As Liam leaned closer, a wave of icy energy slammed into him, not a gentle breeze but a crushing avalanche of cold. He gasped, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn't just cold; it was alive, a primal force that seemed to burrow beneath his skin, into the marrow of his bones. He stumbled back, his vision blurring, but the force held him captive, drawing him closer to the tomb's gaping maw.

He felt something shifting within him, a strange realignment of his very being. And then, a burning cold bloomed on his back, a spreading frostfire that traced an intricate pattern across his skin. It wasn't painful, not exactly, but intensely present, as if a piece of the tomb itself had been imprinted upon him, a permanent and unknowable mark. He didn't know what it was, but if he couldn't stop it, he would need to learn to control it.