The news hung over Blackhold like gathering thunderheads. Kael stood in the armory, methodically oiling Windstrike's mercury-bright blade. The scent of linseed and steel filled the air, a familiar comfort against the looming unknown of Ironwood Vale.
"Six months? A year?" Lira's voice trembled as she burst into the armory, her eyes red-rimmed.
At fourteen, she'd long outgrown clutching stuffed wolves, but the fierce protectiveness remained. She shoved a bundle of thick, storm-grey wool into Kael's arms. "I finished it last night. Stormcloak. Woven with frost-wyrm down from the High Crags. It'll turn lightning… probably."
She tried to sound practical, but her fingers lingered on the cloak's clasp – a silver wolf's head. "The Vale's outer rim is bad enough, Kael. But the Core…" She shuddered. "They say the trees walk. That storm-elementals hunt in packs. That the very air tastes like burnt metal and screams."
Talin (12) swung down from the rafters, landing lightly beside a rack of spears. "Relax, Lira! Old Man Wrynn lives in the Rust Woods, the soggy outskirts. It's just damp, grumpy badgers and lightning-singed squirrels out there."
He tossed Kael a small, lumpy leather pouch. "Ghost-bear repellant. Crushed stink-moss and powdered iron. Works… sometimes. Mostly just makes you smell worse than whatever's chasing you."
His usual grin faltered. "Seriously, though. Don't go chasing Sky-Whales into the Heartwood. Borin the Bold tried that fifty years ago. They found his boots… fused to a shard of crystallized lightning."
Roran (17) leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his presence filling the space. "Wrynn chose the Rim for a reason. He's no fool. He knows what the Core holds."
He met Kael's gaze, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The Vale isn't just a forest, brother. It's a wound in the world where raw magic bleeds through. Lightning doesn't just strike there; it lives there. It coils in the rocks, flows in the streams, breathes in the storms that never leave. That's why you're going. Not just to swing Frostbite, but to understand the storm before you try to wield it. To learn its song, not just its scream."
He tossed Kael a heavy, waxed canvas pack. "Provisions. Elyna packed enough dried venison and hardtack to survive a siege. And salt. Lots of salt. For the things that aren't bears."
---
Far south, in the blinding white expanse of Varyndor's Sunspire Arena, Princess Aelara (12) stood alone. Before her rose a towering obsidian monolith, a remnant from a conquered kingdom. Sweat beaded on the brow of the watching battlemaster. Fire was her birthright, but Altheria's stolen storm-magic thrummed beneath her skin like a caged star, amplifying her reserves to terrifying depths.
She didn't gesture. She didn't shout. She simply looked.
A beam of pure, incandescent white fire, thinner than a needle, lanced from her outstretched palm. It struck the center of the monolith. Not an explosion, but an erasure. Where it touched, the obsidian didn't melt; it vanished, vaporized molecule by molecule in utter silence.
Aelara lowered her hand, her expression serene, almost bored. The air crackled with residual heat and ozone.
King Varek stepped from the shaded observation balcony, his applause echoing sharply.
"Exquisite control, Emberheart. Not a single wasted spark. The confluence of your innate fire and the stolen storm… it creates a reservoir of power unlike anything seen in generations."
He stopped before her, his gaze intense.
"The reports from Blackhold speak of blades and axes. Crude tools. This," he gestured at the smoldering tunnel, "is the future. Raw, refined destruction. When the Heirs gather at the Conclave of Thorns in six months, they will see it. They will understand. You are not just Varyndor's heir. You may well be the strongest of them all."
Aelara tilted her head, a flicker of something cold in her golden eyes. "The Conclave is just talk, Father. Words over wine. The true test is the Gathering in five years."
Even saying the name sent a ripple of tension through the watching courtiers. "The Verdant Labyrinth opens only once every fifty years. Where the strongest heirs are forged… or broken."
Varek's smile was thin. "Precisely. The Labyrinth makes Ironwood Vale look like a sunlit garden. Treasures beyond imagining lie within – artifacts that amplify innate magic, bind elemental spirits, grant insights into the fabric of power itself. But the price…" He paused, his voice dropping. "Is always blood. At least one heir dies within its shifting walls. Sometimes more. Durahn's last Stoneheart was crushed by living stone. Marinos' Tideborn before Dain drowned in air." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "You, my Emberheart, with your… unique reservoir… are destined to claim the Labyrinth's greatest prize. The Conclave is merely the first step. Let the others posture. Let the Stormboy of Blackhold play with his toys in the lightning woods. In five years, the world will burn with your ascendance."
---
Departure
Back at Blackhold, the farewell was quiet, steeped in the stoic strength of the North. Elyna adjusted the strap of Kael's pack, her fingers lingering on the worn leather of Frostbite's harness.
"Wrynn is harsh, but fair. He understands power that bites back. Listen. Learn. And Kael?" Her iron-grey eyes held his. "The Core is death. But the Rim holds lessons too. Sometimes the loudest thunder teaches nothing. Listen for the whisper before the storm breaks.
Toran stood like a granite pillar beside the keep's main gate. He didn't offer embraces. He offered a weathered hand, which Kael gripped firmly. "The Vale bends magic, boy. It twists it, tests it. Your blades," he nodded at Windstrike and Skyrend, sheathed at Kael's hips, "are extensions of your will. Good. Keep them sharp. But Frostbite…"
His gaze dropped to the axe. "...is a conduit for the storm itself. Wrynn will teach you when to let the steel speak, and when to let the thunder answer. Remember: The Vale doesn't reward bravery. It rewards survival. What you learn there must sustain you not just through the Conclave, but through the Labyrinth five years hence. That is the true crucible."
Lira pressed a small, warm honeycake wrapped in cloth into his hand, unable to speak. Talin punched his shoulder. "Bring me back a lightning-puppy! Or at least a really shiny rock!"
Roran simply clasped his forearm, the grip speaking volumes. "Walk the Rim, brother. Come back whole."
Kael shouldered his pack, the weight of Frostbite familiar and strangely comforting against his back. He took one last look at the towering grey keep, the faces of his family etched against the stone. The path ahead was longer and more perilous than he'd imagined. Then he turned south, towards the distant, jagged peaks where the horizon flickered with unnatural light.
The air changed within an hour. The crisp mountain breeze grew heavy, charged. A faint, metallic tang coated his tongue. Distant thunder rumbled, not from clouds, but seemingly from the earth itself. The trees here were strange – blackened trunks, leaves edged with silver, crackling faintly with static. The path narrowed, winding into a valley choked with unnatural fog that shimmered with internal lightning. This was the threshold of Ironwood Vale. Not just a forest, but a crucible of raw power. Ahead lay the Rust Woods, Old Man Wrynn, and the first step towards mastering the storm that slept within him.
He adjusted the grip on Windstrike's hilt, felt the low, answering hum from Frostbite, and stepped into the crackling gloom. The silence of Blackhold was behind him. Ahead lay the song of thunder.