Wind-whipped palm trees rustled under a copper sunrise in the remote fishing village of Coral Spit. Canoes dotted the placid cove, bobbing like driftwood in the gentle current. The air tasted of salt and seaweed, and the squeals of gulls echoed through rickety huts perched on stilts above the sand. Small clusters of villagers were already at work mending nets or scraping barnacles off wooden hulls, preparing for another day's meager catches.
Kano Sea-Glass, barely twelve summers old, crouched at the shoreline's edge, quietly seething at the tide-laced morning. He was always the last to receive a net from the village stores, always given the tattered one, riddled with holes. Even now, he struggled to knot loose strands with calloused fingers. A hush of frustration passed his lips as the thread snapped. He muttered a curse, half under his breath, and cast a furtive glance back at the huts. If anyone heard him, it could mean trouble; a broken name carried little grace in Coral Spit, and curses only fanned the flames of disapproval.
No one paid him any heed—just as they always didn't. He was the runt of a family whose Name had been disgraced generations ago: Sea-Glass. Once, there were whispers that his ancestors commanded small fleets and tamed dragons along the bright reefs, but whatever honor they had died out long before his birth. Now, the Sea-Glass Name was tarnished—broken by shameful deeds nobody cared to speak of anymore. In this village, broken-named folk like Kano lived on scraps of tolerance.
With a sigh, he dropped the net and stretched his sore arms, trying to smooth out the tension across his wiry shoulders. Then he noticed something odd. A sense of displacement—like he wasn't truly awake. All morning, he'd battled a strange headache, accompanied by fleeting, half-coherent images: blazing towers, roars of dragons, and a fortress on the brink of collapse. He'd never seen a fortress in his life—only ramshackle huts and the occasional stone watchtower on neighboring islands. Yet these images felt so…real. As if he'd lived them.
He rubbed his temples, wincing at the painful echo of a name that rattled within his skull. Stormrune… The word made no sense to him, but it resonated like a half-remembered dream. Every time it drifted across his consciousness, the hairs on his neck prickled.
A gentle splash broke his reverie. He looked up to see his mother, Reina Sea-Glass, wading ashore with a basket of shellfish. Her eyes flicked over him; in them, he caught the usual mix of weariness and quiet concern. She was older than her years, her hands calloused from endless labor.
"Your father's going to the storehouse soon," she said softly, nodding at the sorry net in front of him. "He'll want you to help load the day's catch for trade."
Kano nodded but paused. "I—" he began, swallowing down the sudden swirl of confusion. Stormrune. The image of a charred battlement seized him again, sending a spike of pain through his temple. He pressed a hand to his head, fighting to keep his composure. "I'm fine," he managed. "Just…didn't sleep well."
His mother exhaled, brushing a strand of wet hair from her brow. "You look pale. You should take some water, or—" She stopped short, biting her lip. Concern for him was always weighed against the reality of their status; a tarnished family could not afford visits to healers or fancy remedies.
"I'm alright," Kano said more firmly. Abruptly, he picked up the net to show her his progress, turning it over to hide the gaping hole. "I'll finish mending this first, then I'll go."
Reina seemed to accept that, though her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than usual. At last, she sighed. "Don't push yourself," she said and headed up the shore, her basket clattering with shells.
When she disappeared behind the huts, Kano released the breath he'd been holding. He glanced at the rising sun, the coppery glow now evolving into a dull yellow glare. Soon, the heat would press down like a blanket. He thought of the bright, flickering images swirling in his head—images of some heroic battle far away. Why would a half-starved, broken-named fisher boy from Coral Spit be dreaming about such things?
Skeptical, he looked at his own hands. They were small and rough, lined with cuts from ropework. Could these hands have once held a sword? The notion was absurd. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere inside him lay a memory that didn't belong.
Shouts in the distance signaled the morning's trade gathering. The smell of roasting fish floated on the breeze, mingling with the tang of brine. Kano huffed and scooped up the net, slinging it over his shoulder. He had no time for daydreams. Broken or not, he had to do his part if he wanted to avoid more scorn—and more lashings of guilt.
Still, as he trudged up the shore, a single word pulsed in his mind like a forgotten promise:
Stormrune.
---
The steady buzz of villagers bartering and clinking coin met Kano's ears as he rounded a bend of stilted huts. Wooden walkways crisscrossed above the tide's reach, connecting small storehouses and rickety sheds. This was Coral Spit's so-called "market," though it was little more than a muddled row of trading stalls. Village elders oversaw the bustle from elevated platforms, eyeing every exchange with practiced wariness.
As Kano approached, people shifted to let him pass. A few cast disapproving looks, but most simply avoided meeting his eye. He was used to it. Being born to a tarnished family meant he had no place to claim here—no right to speak of lineage or tradition. He kept his gaze on the makeshift planks under his sandals, determined to finish his errands without incident.
At the far end, a squat structure of driftwood and corrugated metal served as the village's storehouse. The heavy door stood propped open with a barrel. Kano slipped inside, adjusting to the gloom. Racks of dried fish, stacked crates of conch shells, and sacks of flour cluttered the cramped interior. The salt-heavy air made his eyes sting.
His father, Marro Sea-Glass, stood hunched over a ledger near a table of fish baskets. Though his father's back was turned, Kano sensed the tension in the set of his shoulders. Since dawn, Marro had likely been negotiating the day's trade with local officials—no easy feat for a man with a broken Name.
"Here," Marro said as soon as Kano came close, not bothering to turn around. He handed Kano a small slip of parchment listing items to load: fish barrels, shell crates, net bundles. "Take what's on that list over to the west pier. A merchant sloop arrives soon."
Kano nodded, though his father's brusque tone stung a little. He scanned the page. "Alright."
Only then did Marro glance at him. His eyes, dark like storm-clouds, narrowed. "Why are you late?"
"I'm sorry," Kano replied. "I had trouble with the net. It kept—"
Marro cut him off with a curt shake of his head. "No time. The wardens will dock our share if we're slow." He inhaled, frustration plain on his face—but beneath it lay an undercurrent of worry. "Go."
Kano swallowed the urge to protest and set to work. Despite being scrawny for his age, he knew how to balance a heavy crate on his hip as he carried it outside. A second trip followed with two baskets of dried fish slung from a yoke. Other villagers hustled in and out of the storehouse, some ignoring him, others flashing him a sneer or a curt nod. If they helped him at all, it was out of duty, never kindness.
Between trips, a baritone voice boomed near the door: "Where's Marro Sea-Glass?"
Kano froze, shifting the load of fish on his shoulder. The speaker stepped inside—Anker Tallow, the warden in charge of trade contracts. He was a thick-set man with arms marked by swirling tattoos. His glare swept the cramped interior until he spotted Marro at the makeshift ledger table.
"You owe a levy on last week's catch," Tallow said, voice clipped. "The council's orders."
Marro braced himself. "We barely made enough to—"
"No excuses," Tallow barked. Then his eyes flicked to Kano. A sneer curled his lips. "And your boy—he'll soon be old enough for labor conscription. Unless you want to buy out his service, of course."
A chill ran down Kano's spine. Labor conscription was a nicer way of saying indenture. To break a Name was to forfeit freedom in many forms. He lowered his gaze, determined not to show fear.
Marro's fist clenched on the ledger, but he forced composure. "We'll…find a way."
A heavy silence lingered, broken only by the drone of distant market chatter. Finally, Tallow grunted and turned on his heel. "You've got a day to settle it," he said over his shoulder. "Then the council won't be so forgiving."
When the warden left, Marro exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath under water. Kano tried not to look at his father's face, etched with shame. An unsettling mix of anger and helplessness churned in the boy's chest.
"Go," Marro repeated in a near whisper, but this time his tone carried defeat.
Kano lifted the yoke of fish baskets again, forcing himself to focus on the tangible task. His father's misery gnawed at him, reflecting the heavier burden their family bore—a centuries-old disgrace that left them constantly at the edge of ruin.
Stormrune. That word surged again in Kano's mind, unbidden. He stumbled, nearly dropping the baskets. The vision of a roaring dragon and a collapsing fortress flared behind his eyelids. It felt so…urgent, like a distant fire calling for help. He caught his breath and steadied himself.
Returning to the sun-scorched docks, Kano wondered how a tarnished, unremarkable life could possibly be connected to the battle images haunting his dreams. He had no answer. But as he set the baskets down on the pier—heart still thudding in his ears—he sensed that these strange visions were more than mere fantasies. Something had stirred within him, something that neither Marro, nor Tallow, nor the council could name or control.
And in a world defined by the power of names, that might just change everything.
---
Later that afternoon, the sky had turned a searing white, heat shimmer rolling off the water. Kano stood on the west pier, his chores nearly done. Every muscle in his back ached from hauling crates for the merchant sloop, but relief flickered on the horizon—soon he could slip away and nurse his growing headache in the shade.
He heaved the last basket of fish aboard the sloop, ignoring the merchant's annoyed sigh. The man slapped a coin pouch into Marro's hand, but the weight of it looked pitifully light. Kano glanced at his father, wondering if it would be enough to settle the council's levy. The tight line of Marro's jaw said otherwise.
Just as Kano was about to step off the pier, movement on the far side of the harbor caught his eye. A battered dinghy drifted in, listing to one side, a single figure slumped against its stern. Villagers paused in their own tasks, exchanging curious glances. Most kept back, wary of any stranger who looked so worse for wear. Broken-named or not, Kano felt a tug of concern.
Against better judgment, he pushed his way to the dinghy. The figure inside—a middle-aged man clad in tattered clothes—bore fresh cuts across his arms and a half-healed burn running up his neck. His eyes flickered open, wild with exhaustion, then landed on Kano.
"Help…" the man rasped. "They—destroyed—Stormrune."
The word struck Kano like a lightning bolt. Stormrune. The fortress of his visions. His legs nearly gave out, but he reached in on instinct, catching the man before he toppled over the gunwale. Up close, he could see a faint emblem on the man's scorched tunic: a crescent wave coiled around a dragon's head, half-charred away.
A hush fell over the gathering villagers. Most had only heard rumors of some distant stronghold named Stormrune, rumored to have powerful dragons and an unbroken lineage. But for Kano, the name carried a piercing, inexplicable resonance. His head pounded; images from his dreams flooded forward—the clang of steel, the roar of flames.
Villagers began muttering at the mention of that fabled fortress. Some stepped back, fearful of the traveler's injuries—or the trouble he might bring. One of the local elders, a frail woman with hawk-like eyes, spat on the pier's planks and shook her head. "We have enough problems," she muttered. "Don't bring war here."
The injured man clutched Kano's shoulder, forcing out labored words. "We…we fled by sea. Many still trapped…someone must warn the other islands." His voice broke, and he sagged in Kano's grasp, trembling from fever or shock.
Kano's chest constricted. This man's plight tugged at him like a memory already written in his bones. He had no rank or power—just a tarnished Name. Yet the raw desperation in the stranger's eyes mirrored the haunting dreams Kano couldn't shake. Stormrune…
Before Kano could speak, Marro appeared at his side, gaze flicking between the injured man and the villagers' nervous faces. A silent tension hung in the humid air.
"Boy," Marro said tightly, "step back. Let the elder decide what to do."
Kano nodded but didn't let go of the traveler's arm, an unspoken protectiveness flaring within him. Somewhere deep, a voice—stronger than any dream—urged him forward. If you turn away now, more lives will be lost.
His father's eyes flitted to the faint Stormrune crest on the man's tunic, then flicked back to Kano. No one else stepped forward to help. A hush settled across the pier as if the sea itself waited to see what would happen next.
Kano swallowed hard. For all his life, he had lived in the shadow of a broken name. Yet here was a chance—no, an imperative—to act. To heed the echo that had been burning in his mind since dawn. Whether or not he understood this stranger's fate, he couldn't ignore the pull of that single, resonant word: Stormrune.
He tightened his grip on the man's arm. "We can't leave him," he said quietly, glancing toward his father. The words threatened to hitch in his throat. "I'll…I'll take him to the shade. Help him—somehow."
Marro looked pained, torn between fear of the village's judgment and a flicker of paternal concern for his son's determination. Finally, with a short nod, he consented. The villagers murmured among themselves, but no one moved to stop Kano.
With effort, Kano hoisted the injured man from the dinghy and led him across the pier, taking the first step onto a path that would soon draw him—and the Sea-Glass name—into the heart of a conflict spanning far beyond Coral Spit. And in that moment, the ache in his head blossomed into an unsteady certainty: whatever Stormrune was, whatever destiny lay behind those terrible visions, it had found him.