The old fisherman gathered his tools in one hand and the basket with the infant in the other, his steps slow as he made his way back toward the village.
The voice inside him wouldn't stop. Alaric growled in thought.
"If you truly are Ragon, son of Zeus, then why are you here inside me?"
Ragon's tone was sharp.
"Because I was betrayed. Struck down before my time. And now fate has bound us together. Whether you like it or not, we share this shell."
"I don't share anything," Alaric said. "But fight me all you want without me, you wouldn't even be breathing right now."
The baby's tiny fists twitched, his cries rising again, due to the their arguments.
"Easy there, boy. We're almost home." He trudged down the dirt path, past the riverbanks and through the woods until a small cottage came into view. Smoke curled from its chimney, and the faint smell of broth hung in the air.
Pushing the wooden door open, he called out, "Mira! Come quick, you need to see this."
A woman in her sixties stepped out from the kitchen, her silver hair tied in a loose bun, wrinkles deepening around her kind but weary eyes. She carried the weight of age in her steps, but her gaze was sharp the moment it landed on the bundle in his arms.
"A baby?" she whispered, wiping her flour-stained hands on her apron. She came closer, her breath trembling. "Where did you get him from?"
"By the river," the old man said, voice steady but soft. "Barely alive… but now, he is."
Mira pulled back the blanket with slow, careful hands. Her face softened, tears welling up as she saw the child's tiny chest rising and falling.
"After all these years…" Her lips quivered into a smile. "Ragnar....He's perfect."
Inside the infant's mind, Alaric cursed.
"Perfect? This is madness. I was a king, not some old woman's miracle child."
Ragon laughed, " And yet here you are, drooling in a blanket. If I weren't trapped here with you, I'd almost enjoy this."
Alaric snapped back.
"Mock all you want, thunder boy. I'll find a way out of this shell and when I do, I'll crush you first."
Ragon's reply was calm,
"We'll see, King. But for now, we're stuck together. Better get used to being rocked to sleep."
Mira cradled the baby close, her old hands trembling as if she held something far too fragile. She kissed his forehead, tears slipping down her cheeks.
"All these years…" she whispered. "I prayed to Zeus for a son. I thought the gods had forgotten me." She looked up at her husband, "His name will be Ragon."
The fisherman, Ragnar frowned. "You've already chosen?"
"Yes," she said firmly. "Ragon. A gift from Zeus himself."
Inside the infant's mind, Alaric stiffened. "Ragon? Of all names, why this cursed one?"
The voice he despised rumbled with satisfaction.
"You heard her, King. Even fate bends to my name. This body is mine as much as yours."
Alaric growled. "Don't fool yourself, thunder spawn. She might call me Ragon, but I am still Alaric, that will never change."
Ragon chuckled. "Keep telling yourself that, while she rocks us to sleep. The world won't know your name it will know mine."
Alaric's rage boiled, but all that escaped his infant lips was a tiny whimper. Mira hushed him gently, smiling.
"There, Ragon. Don't cry. You're safe now."
Ragnar set down his tools, watching his wife glow with the joy she had never known. He sighed, half in disbelief. "Then so be it. Ragon it is."
One Month Later
The river was calm that evening. Ragnar sat on the bank with his net cast wide. Ragon had been asleep when he left, Mira quietly by the fire.
He leaned forward, hauling the net, when the ground under him gave a sudden tremor. The stones by the shore rattled. The water rippled in circles.
Ragnar froze, his hands tightening on the net.
"…No." His voice was low as his eyes went to the horizon.
The tremor grew into a vibration that shook the riverbank. The fish inside the net thrashed wildly, then darted free as if fleeing something larger.
Ragnar stood, breathing hard, his jaw locked.
"It's happening… after a thousand years, it's happening again."
The air split with a sound like tearing metal. A line of green light cut across the night sky above the river. It widened fast, ripping open into a massive portal.
One by one, orcs dropped through. Their heavy boots sank into the mud with their armor which clattered. They each held axes that gleamed. Then came more dozens, then hundreds, then thousands.
Warg riders landed next, their beasts snarling and snapping. Siege wagons followed, dragged by chained creatures with glowing eyes.
At the front stood Graknar, massive shoulders covered in iron spikes, his war-axe raised high. He roared, his voice carrying across the river.
"RAAAH-HOOOH!"
The horde answered, banging weapons against their armor in rhythm. The sound rolled across the land like thunder.
Ragnar's chest tightened. He knew exactly what it meant: the World Tree's seal had been breached. If the orcs were here, the tree was dying.
This land was the boundary the line where four realms touched. The World Tree had kept them apart for centuries. If the orcs were here, the tree was failing… dying. And once the tree died, nothing would hold the realms separate.
Most people think they know the four realms, but the truth is far older and stranger. The elves weren't just forest guardians they were once bound to the World Tree itself, each one born from its roots, which is why their blood glows faintly under moonlight.
The dwarves didn't start in the mountains. They were cast there, exiled from the skies after losing a war against the first dragons, and that's how they learned to carve stone as if it were memory itself.
Humans were never meant to rule the plains. They were wanderers, children of all three races, created when magic bled between realms.
That's why humans can adapt to anything they carry fragments of every other bloodline. And the orcs? They weren't born in this world at all. They were made in the dark flesh and fury molded by forgotten gods who wanted soldiers that never questioned, only conquered.
The gods sealed them away, yes, but not just because they were dangerous. The orcs were the one race that could break the balance of the other three. And now, after a thousand years, they are free again.
He didn't wait. He dropped the net where it was and sprinted toward the village.
He burst into his cottage, chest heaving. Mira turned from the fire, Ragon in her arms. "Ragnar? What happened?"
"Orcs," he said, his voice hard and clipped. "Thousands. The seal's broken."
Her face drained of color. "No… that is impossible!"
"In a thousand years," he cut her off. "Yes. But it's happening now."
He grabbed her by the shoulder. "Take the boy. Go down to the cellar. Don't make a sound. Don't come out until I call you."
Mira clutched the baby tighter, her eyes wide at the sight of the glowing staff. "Ragnar… you swore you'd never fight again"
"I swore until the seal broke," Ragnar cut her off, his voice low but firm. "It's broken. The orcs are here. I won't stand by while they burn everything."
Inside the baby's mind, Alaric stirred violently, his voice sharp with disbelief.
"The fisherman is a mage? All this time he hid it? Hah! This changes everything."
Alaric scoffed, though a hint of respect cut through his words.
"But he's one man against an army. He'll burn out before the first hundred fall."
Ragon's tone hardened. "You underestimate him. I've felt magic like his only from the high mages of Olympus. If he's stepping into this fight, he won't die quietly. He'll make them bleed."
Then Ragon's voice grew restless, his frustration boiling.
"Damn it, I can't just sit here. I should be out there, tearing through their ranks! I am Zeus's son!"
The infant's fists flinched and shook, His tiny fists clenched so hard his knuckles whitened. His legs kicked against the blanket, straining with all the strength his small frame could muster. A faint crackle of static shimmered over his skin then fizzled out, leaving nothing.
Mira gasped softly and pulled him closer. "Shh… easy, little one. Don't fight."
Their baby body squirmed harder, his face red, a frustrated cry tearing from his throat. His tiny hand reached out, fingers shaking as if trying to grasp something unseen.
At this stage, the child's body was too young to belong to just one soul. Both Ragon and Alaric pressed against it, their wills overlapping. That was why they could both speak, both stir the infant's tiny limbs, though clumsily.
But this balance would not last. As the body grew, so would the mind that carried it. And when the boy reached the age of reason, only one consciousness would take hold. The other would be forced into a partial state.
Alaric sneered."Stop wasting your breath. Until you're more than a helpless infant, it's the fisherman who fights for us."
Ragnar stepped outside. The first row of cottages at the village edge was already burning. The orcs were moving in, drums beating, fire spreading.
Ragnar planted his staff in the dirt, sparks crawling up its length as his whole body vibrated as his Runic Essense shot out. His lips moved, the words rolling out in a tongue the villagers had never heard.
"MARA DELISH VAR'ENTASH!"
His staff blazed. A wall of light shot outward, slamming into the advancing orcs as their charge slowed.