The wind howled outside, the skies torn apart by flashes of lightning and the crackling sound of thunder. Rain pounded relentlessly against the castle walls, as if the heavens themselves mourned for the night ahead. In the chamber of the Holy Roman Emperor's estate, a great weight of expectation filled the air, heavier than the storm raging beyond the walls. The Emperor's daughter, a fierce Danish shieldmaiden, lay in the throes of childbirth, her face pale and slick with sweat. The midwives rushed around her, their hands moving with urgency, whispering prayers under their breath as they tried to calm the panicking household.

It was not her first battle, but this time, there would be no sword to wield, no enemy to fight off—only the struggle to bring life into the world.

Wolfram's mother, Helga, was the embodiment of her Danish heritage. She was tall, strong, and noble, a daughter of a royal Danish line, her blood tied to kings of old. Her life had been shaped by the clash of swords and shields, the taste of salt on the wind, and the cries of victory in battle. She was a woman who had lived by the sword and shield, a true shieldmaiden. But tonight, the only battle she would face was against the very life she carried.

As the storm raged on, Helga's strength began to wane. Her breathing grew shallow, and the color drained from her face as blood soaked the linens beneath her. The midwives exchanged nervous glances, knowing there was little they could do. This was no battlefield they could fight on.

Then, in the midst of the storm's fury, a scream pierced the air—Wolfram's first cry. His wail echoed through the stone halls of the castle, louder than the wind, louder than the thunder. It was a cry that spoke of life, of survival, of something primal that defied the storm. But as his cries filled the room, the life of his mother ebbed away. Helga's eyes, which had once blazed with the fire of battle, now stared blankly at the ceiling above.

The Emperor's heart sank when the midwives announced her passing. His daughter, his proud shieldmaiden, was gone. Grief clung to the air like a heavy fog, but the child's wails refused to be drowned out. The infant, red-faced and angry, continued to scream, as though demanding to be heard over the storm.

It was the Emperor who stepped forward, cradling the child in his weathered arms. He was an old man, one who had seen much of the world—wars, victories, and losses—but nothing could have prepared him for this. The death of his daughter and the birth of his grandson were intertwined in the cruelest twist of fate.

"He howls like a wolf," the Emperor muttered under his breath, his voice rough with emotion. He looked down at the child, whose cries showed no sign of stopping. "Wolfram," he said, his voice gaining strength. "That will be his name. A name worthy of a wolf's howl."

And so it was that Wolfram, born in the eye of the storm, was given his name.

The castle, despite the grief, had to move forward. Life in the medieval courts did not slow for sorrow. A future was already being woven around this small, wailing child. He was the grandson of the Holy Roman Emperor, destined for a life of power, intrigue, and expectation. And yet, his blood carried the fierceness of his Danish ancestors, a blend of the iron discipline of the empire and the wild, untamable spirit of the Norse.

Wolfram's early life would be shaped by the shadow of his mother's death and the towering expectations of his grandfather. From the moment he drew breath, the world had its eyes on him, waiting to see what kind of man he would become. Would he follow the strict paths of the empire, a nobleman and statesman? Or would the wild blood of the Danes pull him toward a more dangerous path, the path of the warrior?

As Wolfram grew, whispers would spread through the court about the boy with the wolf's name. Some said that the storm had marked him from birth, that he was destined for greatness—or perhaps disaster. Others, more cautious, would watch from the shadows, knowing that power and expectation often led to conflict.

Wolfram's life had begun on a dark and stormy night, but his journey had only just begun. The world he would navigate was filled with danger, betrayal, and the ever-present question of loyalty. His path would lead him far from the halls of his grandfather's empire, into lands and battles no one could foresee. But one thing was certain: the wolf had been born, and the world would soon hear his howl.