Kapitel 1: Brothers in The Woods pt.1
In the looming shadow of a frost-crowned mountain, the Dragonkin village brimmed with life, the chill of dawn biting through the air, carrying the crackling scent of burning firewood mixed with the sharp tang of ancient ice. Above, the frost dragon's slumbering presence cast a heavy shadow over the village, a constant reminder of the power no one dared to awaken—but Kyrntar feared a darker force was beginning to stir within his brother.
Near the village's edge, where the forest crept and frost clung to every branch, two brothers toiled in the quiet of early morning—Kyrntar and Icazir. The task of gathering firewood was one they knew well, assigned by the council as a means to harden the body and sharpen the spirit. The trees that surrounded them were behemoths of evergreens encased in ice, their bark shimmering like frozen scales beneath the weak sun. Yet, the brothers moved with practiced ease, knowing which trunks would yield to their strikes and would shatter beneath their strength.
As their weapons met the frozen bark, the sound echoed through the still air, thwack, thwack, thwack, a rhythmic reminder of their bond—one formed in birth, in childhood, in brotherhood, but destiny was determine move dependent on the weight of their decisions. Kyrntar, ever the embodiment of focus, swung his massive greatsword with precise, deliberate strokes. Each blow cleaved through the thick wood effortlessly, the sharp blade gliding cleanly as if the frosted timber was nothing more than a stubborn thought waiting to be silenced. His movements were a sturdy ,yet in control, as if every task, no matter how trivial, demanded mastery. Pausing for a second, he let out a shallow sigh as he caught his breath, the cold air swirling around him in visible puffs, he remained unfazed from the cold, his scales bearing the brunt of the winter freeze.
"Father always said to cut deeper into the trunks," Kyrntar murmured, his voice calm and steady, carrying the weight of responsibility, "otherwise they'll snap in the wrong places." His tone was instructional, a quiet reflection of the older brother role he had taken on, despite sharing birthdays with Icazir.
A few paces away, Icazir stood with a smirk, his demeanor a frenzied storm compared to Kyrntar's calm tempest. With a swift, almost violent motion, he drove his dual-headed dagger into the frozen bark. The blade sank deep, lodging into the log with a sharp, satisfying crack. He then pulled it out with inhuman strength, uncommon even amongst the Dragonborn, to flip his blade back into the log splitting it. Unlike Kyrntar's measured strikes, Icazir's movements were wild and relentless, the wood tearing apart under his unbridled force. His eyes gleamed with something fierce and untamed as he twisted the blade, reveling in the raw, visceral energy of it.
"You're too careful, Kyrntar," Icazir muttered, his voice laced with simmering frustration. "Firewood's firewood. It doesn't care how neat it's cut, as long as it burns."
Kyrntar's gaze flicked toward his brother, calm yet searching. "It's more than that. Discipline. Control. That's what makes us strong, Icazir. You can't just rely on brute force."
Icazir cast a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a wry grin, half amusement, half disdain. "You sound like the elders. Maybe you should be the one giving sermons at the temple eh. Me?" He shrugged, his grin widening. "I'd rather just get things done, my way."
The brothers worked in a tense, unbroken silence, the steady rhythm of splitting wood the only sound that pierced the crisp morning air. Each strike, though distinct in its execution, blended into a familiar cadence—the unspoken language they had always shared. Despite the clear rift between them, an invisible thread bound their movements together, woven from years of shared trials, sparring matches, and sibling rivalry, certainly enhanced by their shared birth. In those moments, they were a formidable force, even if their methods often collided like oil and water.
As the pile of firewood grew taller, Kyrntar cast a wary glance at his brother. The question that had been simmering in his mind found its way to his lips, though his tone was measured, almost reluctant. "You've been spending a lot of time away from the village lately," he began, his voice careful, like testing the edge of a blade. "The elders have noticed. I've noticed."
The smirk that had lingered on Icazir's face vanished, replaced by a cold, hardened look. His gaze turned sharp, cutting through the air like a light through glass. "I don't need the village watching my every step," he replied, his words edged with anger. "There's power out there, Kyrntar. Power we could claim. But you—" he paused, a sneer curling his lips—"you'd rather stay here, under the elders' thumb, pretending the world is safe if we just follow their rules."
Kyrntar's jaw tightened, his grip on the greatsword firm. "The world isn't safe, Icazir. That's why we need discipline. Restraint. There's strength in knowing when to use power, not just how. You know that as well as I do."
For a moment, Icazir was silent. Then, with a burst of frustration, he drove his dagger into another log, harder than before. The wood split violently, the crack reverberating through the stillness like a shattering of something deeper than timber.
"You don't understand," Icazir muttered, his voice softer now but no less fierce. "There's more to our bloodline than they tell us. More than just being strong for the village, more than chopping firewood and waiting for orders." His eyes gleamed with something dark, something dangerous. "I've felt it. The dragon's power, no our ancestor's power. It calls to us, Kyrntar. It's in our blood, and I won't deny it any longer."
Kyrntar's eyes narrowed, his pulse quickening with unease. He had always known Icazir to be reckless, abrasive—traits that set him apart from the rest of the village—but this was different. There was something unsettling in the way his brother spoke now, a chill in his words that sent a shiver down Kyrntar's spine, colder than the ice-laden air around them.
"Icazir, what have you done?" Kyrntar's voice carried a rare note of fear, his concern palpable beneath his usual calm.
Icazir turned to face him fully, his eyes gleaming with a frost as sharp as the winter around them. "I've been learning the truth," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "The truth about us, about what we're meant to become. The village, the elders… they're holding us back, Kyrntar. But not me. Not anymore."
For a moment, the silence between them was heavier than any words could bear, the air thick with tension, as though the frost itself was straining under the weight of their conflict. Kyrntar's heart raced, a deep foreboding settling in his chest like a storm gathering on the horizon.
"Icazir, whatever it is you think you've discovered, it's dangerous," Kyrntar warned, his hand instinctively tightening around the hilt of his greatsword, as if bracing for what might come. "This power… it'll consume you." He let go of the hilt. This was his brother after all. Nothing to fear from little Izzy, it was the only way Kyrntar could prevent his heart from foreshadowing the growing grim truth.
Icazir's lips curled into a smile, but there was nothing warm in it. His eyes glinted with a hunger that sent another stab of fear through Kyrntar's core. "Maybe," Icazir murmured, his voice a cold whisper. "Or maybe I'll be the one doing the consuming."
The air between them crackled with tension, thick as the frost-laden ground beneath their feet. What had once been a simple, peaceful chore now seemed like a memory from another life, replaced by the stark reality of their diverging fates. The future of the village, of their bond, teetered on the edge of a cliff.
For the first time, Kyrntar felt powerless to protect his brother from the dark path that awaited him. And for the first time, he feared he might not be able to stop him.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein