In the shadow of hollow peaks where the wind bites cold, lies the story of ash and a heart growing bold. No king claims the soil, no crown warms the head, only whispers of ghosts and the blood of the dead. Young Corvus stood amidst the silent char, his mother’s ring, his father’s jagged scar. The gray sky wept a rain of frozen lead, burying the pride of the house that had bled. He walked from the ruin with eyes burning white, trading his mourning for the edge of the night. Where the ravens gather, the dark sky will spin, the end of the hollow, the path must begin. Beneath the black wings where the wild secrets pour, our sigil is thunder, the blood of the Stormcrow. He carved out a throne from the frost and the bone, commanding the silence that he claimed as his own. No longer the orphan, the boy born of grief, he became the shadow, the winter, the thief. He challenged the fate that had cut down his kin, and forced the cold mountain to let him back in. From the bones of his sorrow, a seat he has made, no longer a thrall to the debt that was paid. Let the world fear the omen that circles the sun, for the Stormcrow rises, the battle is won. Where the ravens gather, the dark sky will spin, the end of the hollow, the path must begin. Beneath the black wings where the wild secrets pour, our sigil is thunder, the blood of the Stormcrow. The storm settles down on the waste of the crow, a silence returns to the valleys below. Remember the boy who refused to be clay, who turned all his darkness to breaking the day.