Prologue — Ashes Don't Die, They Wait
Continent: Varnakos
Kingdom: Yuravan
Town: Rock Town (Territory of the Arakan Clan)
"You carry the storm, even if they've forgotten how it sounds."
— Last words of Elder Miran Arakan, before the Thunderfall Era ended
The wind came down sharp from the cliffs of Rock Town, tugging at worn flags and whispering through broken rooftops. Blue and yellow banners — once symbols of storm-born warriors — now hung faded and frayed, barely recognizable against the gray sky.
At the gate, near the old thunderwood post, stood Arnox Arakan , fifteen years old.
He wore a travel cloak — blue outside, gold inside — with the Arakan clan's thunderbird crest stitched just below the collar. The crest shimmered in the morning sun, not from magic, but from pride. A storm bound in cloth.
His blade was strapped to his back, his eyes fixed on the road south — toward Astragar, capital of the Yuravan Kingdom, and the site of the Great Tournament.
But he wasn't leaving alone.
Mira (softly):
"Do you have to go, brother?"
Arnox (gently):
"You already know the answer, Mira."
Mira (nervously):
"They say… people die there."
Arnox (smirking):
"And they also say I'm from a clan that's already dead. But I'm still breathing."
She didn't laugh.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a single lightning-leaf, yellow-veined and shaped like a bolt. The Arakan symbol of safe return. He pressed it into her hand.
Arnox (firmly):
"Keep that. I'll want it back when I return."
Behind Mira stood their mother — silent, proud, and tired in the way women become when they've lived too long with ghosts. Her eyes were dry, her jaw set.
Mother (calm, serious):
"I won't stop you. Just don't try to fix the past with your body, Arnox. You don't owe it your life."
Arnox (quietly):
"No. I owe it more than that."
He turned, gripping the leather strap across his chest, and took his first step toward the world outside.
The storm ahead was easier to face than the silence behind.
[Internal Monologue – As He Walks]
It's been thirty-seven years since the Arakan Clan changed heads.
Where other warrior clans elect new head commanders every two decades, ours clings to a man long past his prime.
Not because he craves power.
But because no one strong enough has been born to replace him.
The last true warrior from our bloodline died before He can become the clan commander.
Since then? A slow fade.
One child after another born with no lightning, no bond, no spark.
A clan once feared for splitting mountains with thunder… now mocked for failing to light a torch.
The capital says we're finished. The nobles in Astragar whisper:
"Arakan is a museum piece."
"A crest without thunder."
Let them whisper.
Let them bury us in words.
Because lightning doesn't make noise until it strikes.
The sun crested behind him.
Rock Town faded into the haze.
Only the wind traveled with him now — carrying the weight of a name:
Arakan.
A clan of thunder.
Fading.
Forgotten.
Until now.