The boy was born when thunder was in the sky.
That night storms were over the capital. Lightning hit the eastern towers like the sky wanted to see the baby. When his first cry came, it filled the royal rooms. The midwives looked at each other and whispered quietly.
"A storm-birth," one said.
"The heir. Blessed."
The King came in. His armor was still half open, because he came late from battle. His golden cloak dragged on the floor as he walked to the Queen. He did not smile often. But when he looked at the baby in the linen, his lips curved a little. Proud and strong.
"Our firstborn," he said in a deep voice that filled the room. "My son. My heir."
The Queen was pale from the pain of birth. She nodded and said the words she had to say: "He is perfect."
She said those words as she hoped for a bright future for her son.
From the first weeks, everyone in the castle loved Zork. Midwives played with his little fists, always closed like a fighter even when he slept. The cooks carried him in the kitchen, their hands still with flour, laughing when he made noises at the smell of bread.
"Never saw a baby so hungry," Mira the cook said. She was big, strong, with a loud voice. "This boy will eat us all before he grows."
She was right. When Zork could crawl, he always went to the kitchen. He pulled Mira's skirt until she gave him something — a bun, a piece of meat, even dough he should not touch. Mira gave him everything and said to people,
"If he is not king one day, he can be my helper in the kitchen."
The staff called him the sun of the castle. He made their days brighter.
The King, even if he was strict, loved him too. In the morning, he lifted Zork with one arm like he weighed nothing. He laughed when the boy pulled his beard.
"Already a fighter," the King said proudly. "See how he holds? He will hold a sword before he has teeth."
Sometimes, in meetings, he put the baby on the council table. The ministers were shocked, but the King only said, "They must know the future king now. He is louder than all of you already."
The Queen cared for him too. She held him when he could not sleep. She sang little songs that only he heard. She kissed his head when the room was quiet. But sometimes she looked at him for too long, like she waited for something that did not come.
"He'll be strong," she whispered once.
"He is strong already," the King said. "Don't you feel it?"
She nodded. "I feel… something."
By his first year, Zork was crawling all over. The guards in heavy armor ran after him while he laughed and went between their legs. One time, the King found him halfway up the tower stairs. He only shook his head, picked him up, and held him high.
"Fearless," the King said, laughing. "That is my blood."
The Queen touched the boy's hair. "Fearless is good. But wisdom keeps kings alive."
"Wisdom will come," said the King. "Fearless cannot be taught."
Zork reached for the crown on his father's head. To everyone's shock, the King put it on Zork's head for a moment.
"Look. A king already."
The Queen smiled, but her eyes moved again. Waiting.
When he was two, the castle was his playground. He laughed with the guards. He clung to Mira's skirt in the kitchen. He went into the throne room so many times that ministers groaned.
"Let him stay," said the King. "He is better than all of you."
So the boy grew. Storm-born. Fearless. Loved by all.
But the Queen always watched. Waiting.
One night Zork sat on a stool in the kitchen, too tall for him. Something strange happened.
He ate bread Mira gave him. Then the stove fire suddenly grew high. Like it wanted to consume the pot and the food in it.
Zork's eyes opened wide. He turned his head. The lamps were shining brighter. Their color was gold, not orange. Even the candles on the table bent the same way, their flames moving together.
The lambs hanging on the hooks looked strange in the glow, like the fire from the lamp walls wanted to eat them.
"Mira…" Zork whispered, pointing with his bread. "The fire is… bigger."
Mira stopped, ladle in her hand. She looked at the stove, then the lamps, then at the boy. The air felt hotter.
"Well I'll be damned." she muttered. "Never seen anything like this." Zork climbed down from the stool, walking closer. His small hands reached for the glow. His face was full of wonder.
"It's pretty…"
"Yes, pretty," Mira said, frowning. She pushed his hand away. "But dangerous. Pretty things burn. Remember that."
Before Zork could say more, the kitchen door opened hard. A young servant girl ran in, her cheeks red, her eyes wide.
"Mira! It's done! The Queen has given birth! A girl! A princess!" Mira smiled big. She wiped flour on her hands with her apron and started clapping.
"Ha! Another little one for this house. A fine night."
The servant left, but Zork pulled Mira's skirt. His eyes were still on the lamps. "Why did the fire do that?" he asked. "It was so bright, pretty!"
Mira bent down to him, her voice soft. "Some babies bring change with them. Storms for you. So maybe the fire responded to your sister's birth, maybe. Strange things happen when royal blood is born."
Zork frowned.
"Does that mean she's better than me?"
Mira tapped his nose. "So are you, storm-born. Don't think you are less because your sister made a few lamps glow."
But even when everyone laughed and celebrated, Zork kept looking at the flames. They still looked brighter. Warmer. Alive.
He finished his bread in silence.
"Come on then, storm-born," Mira said. "Time to meet your sister."
Zork held her hand as they walked through the busy halls.
Servants carried linens, whispered blessings, and lit new candles like the fire was celebrating too. Zork gripped her hand tighter, his eyes looking at every lamp that burned too bright.
When they came into the chamber, the air smelled of herbs and warm stone. The Queen lay pale but calm on her pillows, maids moving quietly around her. The King stood there, his golden cloak loose, holding a silk bundle.
Zork tried to see. He stood on his toes, reaching up. The King noticed and his stern face softened.
"Up you go, boy," he said. He lifted Zork onto his shoulder. From up there, Zork saw the baby at last — small, red-faced, breathing slow.
"Your sister," the King said. "Sorella."
"She's so small," Zork whispered.
The King chuckled.
"You were no bigger once. Hard to believe now."
The Queen smiled, tired but soft. She touched Zork's cheek.
"You must look after her. An elder brother protects his little sister"
Zork nodded, even though he was only two.
"I will."
The King's hand pressed on his back.
"Good lad."
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By the age of three, Zork was everywhere.
He ran in the courtyards faster than the dogs, laughing while the kennel master shouted and tried to catch him. He climbed the stair rails like a squirrel, making the maids scream because they thought he would fall and break his neck.
One time, Mira found him standing on a chair. His arms were deep in flour, up to his elbows, as he punched dough with both fists.
"Storm save us, boy!" she cried. "That bread's not your enemy."
"I'm helping!" Zork said proudly, even though the dough looked more like a battlefield.
The King laughed when he heard the story later.
"Let him ruin the bread. Better he learns to fight dough before he fights men."
The Queen only pressed her lips together. "A prince should not be covered in flour."
The King gave her a look but said nothing.
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By the age of four, Zork's body was still small, but his spirit was strong.
He stole wooden sticks from the armory yard and chased the guards, shouting, "Fight me! Fight me!" until they gave in. He swung the stick wildly with no skill, but he gripped it so hard no one could take it from him. Even when they knocked him down, he jumped back up, cheeks red, and laughing as if nothing happened.
One afternoon, Calren — the King's great knight — found him standing tall on a barrel, stick in hand, "commanding" three squires who looked half-tired, half-amused.
Calren laughed, his deep voice rolling across the yard.
"And what are you then, lad? General of the barrels?"
Zork grinned down at him, without fear.
"I'll be King one day. Better they start listening now."
The squires burst out laughing. Calren raised one scarred brow, impressed.
"Bold words for such short legs. Maybe you'll grow into them."
When he told the King later, the King only smiled faintly.
"That's my boy."
The Queen listened too, but she only asked one quiet question:
"And did the air stir around him? Any light in his hands?"
Calren shook his head. "No, my Queen. Only sweat and stubbornness."
The Queen's eyes lowered, and her smile faded.