The night he was born, the skies above Asper were crimson. The moon, usually pale and calm, burned red as though it too were bleeding. Villagers whispered that a new curse had taken root in the world, that the gods had turned their faces away. Crops had begun to rot, the rivers had lost their sparkle, and storms came without warning.
In a small, half-collapsed hut at the edge of a forgotten village, a baby's first cry cut through the thunder. His mother held him close, her hands trembling but her eyes gentle. His father stood by the door, staring out into the rain as if afraid the world itself might come to take the child away.
"His heart is strong," the woman whispered. The man nodded. "Then maybe he can live in a world like this."
They named him Ragnarok, a name that meant the end of one world and the beginning of another.
Even as a baby, he was quiet. He didn't cry much, didn't laugh either. He would just look at things, the flicker of firelight, the falling rain, his mother's face. People said he had the eyes of someone far older.
Life in that village was harsh. The earth was tired and the people hungrier with every passing season. Most nights, the family shared only a handful of grain soup. His mother would always give her portion to him, pretending she had already eaten. When he grew old enough to notice, he would push the bowl back toward her."You eat," he said softly. She smiled and shook her head. "You need it more. You still have growing to do."
Despite the world's cruelty, his parents taught him kindness. His father, a former soldier turned farmer, built him a small wooden sword. "The world doesn't always fight fair," he told his son. "But you should always fight clean."And every evening, after their work in the fields, his father sparred with him under the fading light, laughing even when the boy's strikes were too light to sting.
His mother watched from the doorway, weaving dried flowers into small charms to hang on the walls." For protection," she said. "Not from monsters but from despair."
Those were the days when the world still felt a little warm.
Then came the Night of Fire.
Ragnarok was fourteen. He had been gathering water when he saw smoke rising from the far end of the village. At first, he thought it was a storm cloud, until he heard the screams. Raiders, driven mad by starvation, had come to steal whatever food was left. They brought torches and blades, taking what little others had managed to save.
Ragnarok ran home, heart pounding. He found his mother by the well, blood soaking her dress. His father stood between her and the raiders, holding a dull farming blade that was almost broken.
"Ragnarok!" his father shouted. "Run! Go to the forest!"
The boy froze. He didn't want to leave them. He wanted to help. But when one of the raiders raised his weapon, his father roared and charged, and Ragnarok ran.
He ran until his legs gave out, until the fire's light disappeared behind the trees. When he finally returned hours later, everything was ash. The house was gone, the fields nothing but smoke.
He found his parents together, his mother's hand resting over his father's chest, their faces peaceful even in death.
He sat there until dawn, unable to speak or cry. When the morning light came, he dug two graves with his bare hands and whispered, "I'll never be weak and I will never run like a coward again. I promise."
The ashes blew across the ground and carried his words into the wind.