The wind over Elandor's northern cliffs howled like a living thing, slicing through the morning haze. A figure moved across the jagged terrain—fluid, precise, and utterly unbothered by the treacherous footing. Each step carried power. Each breath was timed with control. The boy from Duskmoor was gone.
Kael Fael stood at the edge of the world, arms bare beneath a sleeveless tunic, muscles coiled with Essence. Sparks danced along his forearms—tiny arcs of Lightning flickering like impatient nerves. Above him, clouds rolled as if stirred by his presence.
His badge shimmered with a new glow:
Flicker Rank — 8th Flame.
A month had passed since the storm awakened inside him. A month of solitude, of brutal self-discipline. Of refining every breath and strike until his body sang with Essence. Now, Kael didn't just react—he moved with intention, with purpose honed through fire and near-death.
He had shattered obsidian training slabs with a single war-infused blow.
He had called down controlled lightning without speaking a word.
He had dodged point-blank spellfire with nothing but footwork and instinct.
His spells no longer roared wildly—they answered him like extensions of his own limbs. Tempest Grave, once overwhelming, now hovered within reach like a trusted weapon. Not mastered. But understood.
Elandor's instructors whispered. Other Initiates stepped aside. Some stared in awe. Others in fear.
But Kael didn't care.
This wasn't about glory. It never had been.
He stood tall now, at the mission board once more—eyes narrowed, sifting through parchment and etched glyphs—until one caught his eye. A solo clearance request. Dangerous territory. Unclaimed zone. Possible Varnok activity. No reinforcements.
He rolled his shoulders and picked it off the board.
His heart didn't race. His hand didn't shake.
Just a small, crooked smile on his face as the clouds above rumbled with distant thunder.
"This mission will be my testing ground."
The Myrrhfen fringes were quiet—unnaturally so. Shard Hollow stretched ahead, its ruined stonework and choked trees bathed in a cold gray light. Moss had overrun what was once a quarry, now a place where Essence pooled like stagnant water.
Kael stood on the edge of the broken path, cloak drawn tight. Lightning danced faintly beneath his skin, crackling just under the surface. His right hand twitched with anticipation, but his eyes were calm.
He walked into the Hollow like a storm front.
And the Varnok came.
Crawling from the shadows. Seven of them at first—misshapen, long-limbed, black hides slick with warping Essence. Their shrieks cut through the silence.
Kael didn't flinch.
His right hand lowered. His left curled back.
A whisper of electricity hummed through the grass beneath him.
Then he vanished.
A crack of displaced air. One Varnok flew skyward, spine shattered by a rising knee wrapped in kinetic and lightning.
Before the others could turn, Kael dropped behind the second with a spin—his heel glowed violet—and kicked through its midsection, sending its upper half crashing into a stone wall.
The third saw only a blur. A war mage's flickering silhouette.
Its skull caved in from a downward elbow wrapped in Storm Essence.
The fourth was lifted off the ground before it could scream—Kael's hand closed around its throat, a faint spell circle flashing across his forearm.
"Surge Pulse."
The creature convulsed as a compressed lightning burst ignited from within, tearing it apart.
Three remained. They tried to retreat.
They didn't get far.
Kael blurred between them, too fast to follow.
A sweeping leg knocked one off balance.
An elbow crushed another's jaw.
A backfist—sharp, clean, brutal—flattened the last against a rock face.
Seven Varnok. Gone in seconds.
Kael exhaled once.
Still not enough.
Then the trees parted.
The alpha emerged.
Massive. Horned. Its Essence curled around it like coiled smoke, thicker than the others. Armor-plated and blood-marked, a Varnok forged through battle.
It roared, sending a wave of pressure across the battlefield. Lesser adventurers would've staggered.
Kael just raised his eyes.
The Varnok charged.
Kael met it head-on.
No hesitation. No fear. No wasted motion.
He ducked under the first swipe, his right fist slamming into the beast's chest. The impact cracked its armor—and sent it stumbling.
It swung again. Kael caught its claw with one hand.
The air vibrated.
Then he lifted the creature by its arm and smashed it into the ground, cracking stone and earth beneath them.
Lightning spiraled up his legs as he kicked off the crater's edge, twisting in midair.
"Storm Drop."
He crashed down—knee first—onto the alpha's chest. The shockwave rippled through the quarry. Trees snapped in the distance.
The beast tried to rise.
Kael stood over it, one hand raised to the sky. The clouds churned. Rain began to fall.
His voice was calm.
"Tempest Grave."
A spiraling step. A breath drawn deep.
His strike came down like judgment.
The sky split open. A colossal bolt of lightning—vivid violet and shaped like a dragon's maw—slammed into the Varnok and the entire quarry.
The impact scorched the Hollow. Essence burned in the air.
When it cleared, Kael stood alone.
Not a scratch on him.
Just the quiet rain.
And the scent of ozone.
⸻
Kael took one final breath before turning back the way he came.
The Hollow was silent.
"This mission," he said quietly, "was only the beginning."