The skies of Vorgar burned with stormfire, thunder splitting the clouds into rivers of molten white. From the heavens fell a shard of light—a broken cradle flung by the madness of the Warp. It screamed through the poisoned sky, trailing fire, until it struck the walls of Karvoss Spire with the fury of an orbital bombardment.
The bastion shook. Alarms howled. Guard-towers shuddered as debris rained into the fortress-city's courtyards. From the smoking crater lay a cracked pod of black metal, its surface scorched and warped, yet still intact.
Soldiers rushed forward, weapons ready, relic rifles and shock-lances aimed at the strange object. Steam hissed from its seams. Then, with a groan of strained machinery, the pod split open.
Inside lay a child.
He was impossibly large—already the size of a three-year-old, though clearly newborn. His chest rose and fell in calm breaths despite Vorgar's poisonous air. His skin bore no blemish, his limbs were strong, yet his eyes fluttered shut like any babe in slumber.
Gasps spread through the gathered crowd. "It lives—" "It breathes the storm—" "A daemon!"
"Quiet," thundered Lord Karvoss, master of the Spire, as he strode forward. His scarred face and metal augmetics glinted in the stormlight. For a long moment he stood over the child, studying him. Then, slowly, he reached down and lifted the boy from the pod.
The infant stirred, opening eyes that gleamed faintly in the dim light. He did not cry, though the fortress trembled around him. Instead, he looked at Karvoss with a focus far beyond his age.
Karvoss's lips tightened. "You fall from the sky into my house," he said softly. "And I have no son of my own."
The crowd murmured. Some muttered prayers. Others whispered fears. But Karvoss raised the child high in his arms, his voice booming over the thunder.
"This boy is mine. From this day forward, he is Daerion, son of Karvoss. He will grow, and he will endure, as all of us must endure Vorgar."
The people bowed their heads, though unease lingered. The storm raged on above, lightning clawing across the heavens. But within the walls of Karvoss Spire, a child slept soundly in the arms of his new father.
And in the months that followed, he grew with impossible speed. Where other children babbled, Daerion spoke. Where others crawled, he walked. He learned faster than any tutor could teach, his body hardening against the poisons and storms of Vorgar.
By the time he was a year old, the fortress already whispered of him as more than human. Some called him a blessing. Others a curse. But all watched him.
For they knew: this child was not like any born of Vorgar.
This child was destined for more.