My first word was not mama.
Nor was it dada.
It was "YSMIR!"
Not softly. Not accidentally. Not as some half-formed baby noise that adults generously interpret as language.
No.
I shouted it.
A full-throated, soul-deep nordic battle cry ripped from my lungs like I was standing atop a mountain in a bearskin cloak, calling my ancestors to witness me. The sound cracked through the room with a force that had absolutely no business coming from an eight-week-old baby.
My parents screamed.
The nursemaids screamed.
One of the guards outside the door yelped and very nearly drew his sword.
And I—Magni Titanborn, future Witch-King extraordinaire—maniacally laughed internally like an absolute menace.
Oh, it was glorious.
I had felt it building for days. Ever since my soul properly settled into my body, there had been a pressure deep in my chest, coiled and waiting. Not magicka exactly—this was something older, heavier. A Nordic battle cry, an echo of the Thu'um used by ancient Nords cemented in our blood. The right to speak and be feared by the world.
I wanted to test it.
And if I was going to do it, I was going to do it right.
So when my parents leaned over my cradle again, cooing and trying—again—to get me to say mama or papa, I seized the moment.
I reached down into that place where instinct and soul met.
And I let it out.
"YSMIR!"
The air thumped. Not enough to break anything—thank the Divines—but enough to rattle candles and send a sharp pressure wave through the room. The sound carried weight. Authority. A declaration.
Silence followed.
My mother stared at me, wide-eyed.
My father looked like his soul had briefly left his body.
Then chaos.
"Did—did the baby just—"
"Was that a shout?!"
"By the Divines—"
I gurgled and waved my fists, because presentation matters.
The priest recovered first, stepping forward with shaking hands and murmuring a quick diagnostic spell. He frowned, then blinked, then frowned again.
"There is… no damage," he said slowly. "No harm. No lingering effect."
My father swallowed. "Then what in Oblivion was that?"
The priest hesitated.
"…a nordic battle cry."
My parents stared at me.
I stared back, eyes blue, innocent as could be.
"Well," my mother said faintly, "please explain why he said Ysmir."
"Of course," my father said quickly. "We say 'By Ysmir's beard' all the time."
They latched onto that explanation like drowning sailors to driftwood.
"All the time," my mother agreed, nodding vigorously.
"Yes," the priest said, relieved to have a mundane explanation. "Children often repeat what they hear."
Excellent, I thought.
Plan successful.
Not only had I confirmed that I could access the Nordic racial trait the battle cry even as a baby—albeit weakly—but I had also cemented a very important idea into my parents' minds:
My child is special.
More than that.
My child is destined for greatness.
From that day on, every time someone visited, my father told the story.
"Eight weeks old," he'd say, puffing up. "First word was Ysmir. Shouted it like a true Nord."
The guards loved it.
The townsfolk whispered.
Winterhold—bleak, broken, and bitter—had been given something new to talk about.
Hope, wrapped in the form of a massive, blue-eyed baby.
Time passed.
Slowly. Deliberately.
I trained.
As much as a baby could, anyway.
While my body grew, my soul practiced. Meditation came easily now, slipping into focus even amid noise and movement. The Gatekeeper remained a constant presence in my mind—quiet, observant, endlessly patient.
He rarely spoke unless I addressed him directly.
"Hey," I thought one day, watching snow drift past the window. "You've been quiet."
«I am always quiet,» he replied calmly. «I was alone for a very long time.»
That… made sense.
"You can talk more, you know," I said. "I don't mind."
A pause.
Then, «Understood. I will be more… reactive.»
And he was.
When I asked questions, he answered thoughtfully. When I wondered aloud about magic theory, he offered insight that would make the mages of the College of Winterhold give pause. He didn't lecture unless asked. He didn't push.
He simply existed.
And I again realized something important:
The Gatekeeper had not been dormant before.
He had been lonely.
At nine months, I decided it was time.
Walking.
I had practiced for weeks—shifting my weight, strengthening my legs, learning balance. My body was absurdly strong for my age, Titanborn blood asserting itself early. Still, muscle memory needed training.
My parents helped me "walk" for a while, holding my hands, supporting my torso.
But today?
Today was the real thing.
Before I began, I mentally announced like some mad scientist, "Gatekeeper. First experimental walk commencing now."
He sighed.
«Of course it is.»
I pushed myself up.
The room wobbled.
I took a step.
Then another.
My parents gasped.
"Korir!" my mother whispered. "Look—he's—"
I walked.
Across the room.
Unaided.
Like a tiny conqueror.
Then my foot caught on the rug.
I went down hard, smacking my knee against the floor.
Pain flared—sharp, surprising, and offensive.
And without thinking, I yelled:
"BY YSMIR'S BEARD!"
Dead silence.
My mother slowly turned her head toward my father.
Her look could have frozen a frost troll.
My father winced. "I… might say that a lot."
I sniffled dramatically, rubbing my knee for effect, because if you're going to curse, you might as well sell it.
From that day on, it became my favorite phrase.
Stub a toe?
"By Ysmir's beard!"
Drop a toy?
"By Ysmir's beard!"
Hear my parents arguing quietly about trade tariffs?
"By Ysmir's beard!"
They groaned every time.
I delighted in it.
But while they laughed and sighed, others noticed.
The priest watched me more carefully now with borderline reverence.
The guards spoke in hushed tones.
A courier from Solitude lingered a little too long during a visit.
Ripples.
Small ones, but growing.
Winterhold had lost nearly everything in the Great Collapse—its port, its wealth, its influence. What remained was resentment and survival.
Now?
Now it had a child who walked early, spoke early, shouted a nordic battle cry like a true hero, and bore the unmistakable mark of Magnus. Maybe not a traditional Nord god but a god nonetheless, and that mattered.
Symbols mattered.
And my father—politician that he was—began to understand that.
I heard him speaking one night, low and thoughtful, to my mother.
"…people are watching," he said. "They listen when he's mentioned."
My mother smiled softly. "He gives them something to believe in."
My father was quiet for a moment.
"…maybe it's time we stopped only blaming the College."
That caught my attention.
The Gatekeeper caught it too.
«A change,» he observed.
Yes.
Yes, it was.
Winterhold would not be rebuilt overnight.
But it would be rebuilt.
And I—Magni Titanborn, Dragonborn, bearer of gods' blessings and a broken demiplane—would make damn sure of it.
One word at a time.
One step at a time.
And eventually?
One kingdom at a time.
I so swear by Ysmir's beard