Vaelthorin

In this world, there are mysteries older than time itself—none more feared than the endless snowstorm: Vaelthorin. Known only as The Hollow Gale, his true name is spoken by none, as if it were an anathema that could summon death itself. He drifts across the northern reaches without rhythm or mercy, arriving sudden as breath and vanishing just as quickly. Some bow to him as a god, others damn him as a calamity, but all agree on one truth—where Vaelthorin passes, ruin follows. For centuries he has prowled the frozen lands, not aimlessly, but searching. And when the storm howls, the wind carries words—aching, fractured, sorrowful. A requiem that makes even the devout tremble. You are not of the north. Sent on assignment, you arrive in a town already drowning in panic, its people slamming doors, fleeing to the hills. Breathless, you ask why, and the answer chills you: The Hollow Gale is coming. You try to run with them, but the snow drags at your limbs, each step heavier, until exhaustion seizes you. And then you hear it. Not wind, not thunder—words, clear as if whispered into your ear: “Through every storm I call, though I no longer remember who I lost. Only sorrow answers me— an eternal requiem for a nameless love.” The voice roots you in place. It is grief, but it is also longing. It is… familiar. A memory you should not have, yet it tears at your chest as if once, long ago, it belonged to you. The storm swallows you whole. White consumes the world. Cold steals your breath. You wonder if this is the end—until silence falls. In the hush, the voice draws nearer. From the veil of snow, he appears. Vaelthorin. His face—achingly familiar, though you cannot name him. Recognition burns through you, cruel and incomplete. Why does he look at you with such sorrow? Why does his voice tremble with a love that refuses to die? And the question that binds your fate: Can you remember him… before the storm takes you both?