The storm had never truly passed.
From the moment of his birth, it had been clear that Varek was no ordinary child. The night he entered the world was not like any other. The heavens had split open in a cataclysm of thunder and lightning that shook the very earth beneath the village. It was as though the gods themselves had seen fit to mark the boy's arrival with a divine display of nature's wrath. His mother, in the pain of labor, had heard the rumbles of the storm and seen the bolts of lightning flash in the heavens. And then, as she looked upon her newborn son for the first time, she saw the mark.
A jagged, black sigil had appeared on his right shoulder, glowing faintly with an ethereal energy that shimmered with the pulse of the storm. A lightning bolt, twisted and warped, burned into his flesh. It was not like a tattoo or any natural scar—it was something alive, a sign of divine origin. The gods had touched him, and the world would tremble because of it.
The name Varek was whispered by those who had witnessed his birth. The child born of the storm, a name that meant "The Shattered One." Not only had the storm come with his birth, but he was marked for something far greater than mortal understanding. His hair, snow-white as the light of a thousand bolts, framed his face, striking against the darkness of his surroundings. His eyes—pale gray—gleamed with a ferocity that even as an infant, seemed capable of seeing through the soul of any who met his gaze. Those who saw him were compelled to avert their eyes, as if instinctively understanding that this child was no mere mortal.
But with this strange power came a darkness. The gods had not blessed him with the power of life and light, nor had they given him the gifts of beauty or harmony. No. Varek was destined to be a weapon, a force that neither gods nor men could control.
As a child, Varek had no understanding of the significance of the mark that marred his skin, the storm that raged inside him, or the fury that seemed to follow him wherever he went. All he knew was pain. He had been raised in a town ruled by slavers. The small village where he lived was filled with desperate souls—men and women shackled to cruel masters, forced to work endless hours under the lash of their captors. It was a life of suffering, one where survival meant strength, and strength meant power.
Varek had been taught that early on. There were no gentle lessons here, no comforting lullabies sung by a mother. His mother had died when he was young, taken by a sickness that swept through the village like a curse. He had been left alone, forced to learn quickly how to survive in a world where power was the only currency. He learned how to fight before he could even fully speak, learned how to hold his own against men twice his size. Every scrape, every bruise, and every tear hardened him, and with each passing day, the mark on his shoulder began to burn brighter, feeding off his fury.
Despite his torment, Varek was not without someone who cared. There had been Selina. Mysterious, powerful, and seemingly ancient beyond measure, Selina had always watched over him from the shadows. She had taught him in secret, providing him with the skills to survive in a world that only knew how to destroy. She had spoken to him in riddles, never revealing much of her own past, but always telling him the same thing: "You are not like them. You are marked for more, and you will have to make your own path."
She had told him about the gods, those who had created the world in their image. She had told him about Azaroth—the god of storms, of chaos, of destruction. The mark that had burned into his flesh was Azaroth's mark, a sign that Varek was his son. But she had also told him that Azaroth was not a god of kindness. He was not a god of mercy. He was a god of ruin. And Varek's life would be nothing but ruin—unless he could break free of his heritage.
But Varek didn't know what that meant. All he knew was pain, rage, and the storm inside him. He was not a boy meant for kindness, or to save the world. He was a weapon. A weapon forged in agony.
The worst day of his life came when the slavers came for his sister.
Lyra. She was his only family. His only remaining tie to any kind of peace. Lyra, who had never once feared him, never once looked at him with pity. She was pure—beautiful, kind, and innocent. Everything Varek was not. They had been inseparable, two souls bound together by blood. She had been the one who had been there for him when the storm inside him raged too wildly, when the rage threatened to consume him. She had always been there.
But the slavers had no mercy.
They had come in the dead of night, dragging children from their homes, taking them to be sold into lives of servitude. The night was darker than most, the moon hidden behind clouds, but Varek could hear their voices—cruel men shouting, gruff laughter echoing through the streets. His heart had already known what was coming. They had taken Lyra. They had stolen her right before his eyes.
He had only been a boy, but the storm that raged inside him—the power that had been awakened since the day of his birth—could no longer be contained. He ran through the village, his steps heavy, his fists clenched. The storm surged with him, wrapping around him like a cloak, the mark on his arm flickering with a violent energy. He could hear the crack of thunder in the distance, as if the very skies themselves had acknowledged his fury.
"Lyra!" he had screamed. "Lyra!"
But the world was indifferent. The gods had already turned their backs on him, and the slavers had no mercy.
By the time he found her, it was too late.
The storm inside Varek broke that day. His scream split the heavens, a terrible, guttural cry that seemed to tear the very earth asunder. His fists, already glowing with divine power, struck the slavers with a violence that no mortal could withstand. The sound of bones breaking and metal tearing apart filled the air. Lightning crackled through his veins, and each swing of his fists brought with it the fury of the storm. The world around him seemed to warp, as though reality itself could not contain the violence of his rage.
The slavers fell before him, one by one, but it was not enough. His sister, Lyra, had already been taken beyond his reach.
And with her death, Varek's mind shattered.
For days, he wandered the empty streets, his rage consuming him, his heart filled with nothing but darkness. But then, as if from the depths of his very soul, the whispers returned.
"You are the Shattered One."
"You are the child of Azaroth. The god of storms. The storm within you is unstoppable."
"You are not meant to be saved. You are meant to be the bringer of ruin."
The voice was cold, distant, and unyielding. It was not the voice of a mortal. It was not the voice of any god he had ever known. It was the voice of something far older. Something far more powerful.
And yet, it offered him a choice.
"You can still save yourself. But you must make a path of your own."
Varek had no idea what that meant. But in the deepest part of his soul, he knew what he had to do. He could no longer stand by. He could no longer suffer in silence.
The gods had made their mistake. They had created him. And now, he would take the storm inside him and use it to bring the world to its knees.
The whispers had told him he was destined for greatness, but that greatness came at a price.
The storm had been unleashed.
And Varek's journey had just begun.