The path into Graythorn Vale was overgrown and half-swallowed by fog. Gnarled trees leaned inward as though to whisper secrets only the wind could carry. Kael moved alone, his boots crunching against roots and ash-soaked earth. The mission had sounded routine — scout the lower basin, identify what caused the disappearance of three initiates, and report.
But from the moment he crossed the threshold, he felt it.
Wrongness.
Not the kind that came from wild beasts or unstable Essence.
This felt older.
Hungrier.
His steps slowed as he entered the basin's hollow — a natural clearing surrounded by dead trees and mist. Kinetic tension curled along his spine, and his Essence pulsed on instinct. He wasn't alone.
Something stepped from the fog.
Not fast. Not loud. Just there — like it had always been watching. A Varnok.
But not like the others.
Its body was lean and jagged, dripping shadow with every motion. Limbs stretched too far. Its face… wrong. No symmetry, no features, just an obsidian mask of shifting plates. It didn't attack right away. It just stared.
Kael moved first.
He surged forward, Lightning Essence crackling through his palm, a spiraling War Mage step pattern launching him into a high-speed jab.
But the Varnok vanished.
Kael barely pivoted before something slammed into his side — hard enough to crack ribs. He flew, hit the ground, and rolled.
Pain exploded in his side.
He coughed, spat blood, and rose in a crouch.
The Varnok was already in motion again — a blur of claws and howling wind. Kael fought back the best he could. He wove between shadows, fists glowing with Lightning, kicks laced with Kinetic bursts, his body moving faster than his thoughts.
Strike. Duck. Elbow. Backstep.
Still not enough.
The Varnok adapted — faster with every move. It struck low, claws slicing through his thigh. Kael cried out, leg giving way. He pivoted on instinct, throwing an upward arc of Lightning, catching the creature across the chest.
It shrieked — a horrible, flanged sound — but it wasn't finished.
It drove a claw into Kael's side.
Deep.
He screamed.
Essence faltered.
Blood spilled.
He barely managed to wrench himself free, stumbling backward, vision blurring. His breathing came in ragged gasps. His arm hung useless. The world tilted.
This wasn't a fight anymore.
It was a slaughter.
He hit his knees.
And the Varnok laughed.
That sound again — mocking, warped. Like the world's cruelty given voice. It stepped forward, claws dragging through the dirt.
Kael couldn't move.
"Is this it?" he whispered, breath hitching. "After everything… is this how I go?"
No one was coming.
No Origin to descend.
No brother to protect him.
"Damn it—!"
He screamed — not in rage, but in desperation.
"SOMEBODY—anything— please—"
The world didn't answer.
But the sky did.
A single drop of rain fell across his cheek.
Then another.
Then thunder.
Low. Distant. But coming.
The Varnok froze.
Kael's eyes widened as the pressure changed. The Essence around him thickened — not just Lightning, but something broader. Wilder. Unchained.
It stirred inside him.
A breath. A pulse. A call.
Kael rose — barely — teeth clenched through the pain, one eye swollen, blood slicking his side. The Varnok hissed and lunged—
Too late.
Kael stepped forward, dragging his foot in a spiraling motion. His other arm raised slowly, violet lightning arcing up from his back to his shoulders, spiraling down his forearms. The air split.
His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"Storm… rise with me."
The clouds overhead blackened as if the sky itself was drawn to his will. Thunder rolled — close now. The wind screamed through the vale.
Kael thrust his fist forward in a sharp arc — not toward the Varnok, but toward the sky.
"TEMPEST GRAVE!"
Lightning answered.
A violet stormbolt, impossibly wide, tore from the heavens and slammed into the earth like divine judgment. The Varnok didn't scream — it vanished beneath the raw impact. The ground shattered. Trees exploded. Arcs of secondary lightning carved the clearing into broken scars.
A final blast followed — the silhouette of a storm dragon's maw, jaws open wide, descending with the force of fury given form.
And then — silence.
Rain fell in sheets.
Kael stood in the center of a crater, smoking, bleeding, barely upright.
But alive.
His eyes, dim with exhaustion, still glowed faint violet.
The storm inside him… had answered.
⸻
That night, the skies above Solmire whispered of something waking. And in Elandor, a young War Mage sat on his rooftop, staring at his bandaged hands, and wondering what he had just become.