They say that when the desert meets the northern wind, things are born that belong to no world at all.
That is how the twin axes of the Stormbound appeared — weapons not forged, but summoned.
Old caravan guides told that one night, in the silence of the sand sea, a sound rose that had no place in a desert:
a dull, heavy strike, as if a hammer fell upon stone.
Then another.
Then a third.
A rhythm like a heartbeat that didn’t care in which world it beat.
At dawn, they found two axes standing blade-down in the sand, as if planted there by forces that did not tire.
On their heads were symbols no desert wanderer could read:
runes of northern tribes,
marks of the wind,
interwoven signs speaking of two warriors bound by a single fate.
But that wasn’t the strangest thing.
They said the axes never rusted, even after lying for hundreds of days under the open sky.
The handles never cracked.
The leather never faded.
The metal never cooled.
The old craftsmen whispered:
“This is not a weapon.
This is a call.
And only those who have something to protect can hear it.”
They also said the axes could not be separated.
If someone tried to raise only one, the handle turned cold as ice.
But when both were held together, the metal seemed to breathe — as if the twin blades remembered something mankind had forgotten.
In the warrior’s hands, the runes shimmered faintly, reflecting not the sun —
but the inner fire of the one who held them.
It was believed the axes chose those who stood before a battle greater than victory itself.
Not a battle against an enemy.
But against oneself.
One day, the axes vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.
But desert wanderers swear that if, in the deep of night, you hear a distant, muffled rhythm —
it means the axes are searching for a new bearer.
One who can lift both.
One who understands:
the true war is not outside —
it is within.
