The silence before a storm was never peaceful—it was waiting.
Thornhollow slept uneasily beneath grey skies, unaware of the shadows threading through its veins. Cloaked figures moved in tight formation through the merchant quarter, slipping past runes of detection with void-warped tokens. Eyes like flickering embers, voices like echoing graves—they were Voidbinders, and tonight, their mission was not to destroy.
It was to unravel.
They seeded cursed relics in key structures—waterways, guard towers, the central communication spire. Each piece of dark aether sang a dissonant tune, forming a net of unmaking. The city's defenses would fail without a single blade being drawn.
At the edge of the city, in a sealed sanctum beneath the Stormspire, Kael Darven stood shirtless before a massive obsidian altar carved with wind glyphs and lightning veins. His skin glowed faintly, tattoos of lightning branching from his heart outward like a storm trapped in flesh. His mother's blood—storm-born royalty—howled in his veins.
He knelt, placing his palm to the stone. "Let it strike."
The chamber responded.
Wind howled. Aether surged. The ceiling split as a true bolt of sky-forged lightning descended—not summoned, but invited. It struck Kael square in the chest.
Pain lanced through him, primal and divine. His Stormcaller's Crucible cracked, screaming with overcharged energy.
He didn't fall.
Instead, Kael rose, every muscle alight, his curls billowing like a tempest crown. "You are mine," he whispered, "I am not afraid."
Far above, the storm answered.
In that moment, the Thundercore bloomed—an ancient, slumbering inheritance from his mother's bloodline, once thought extinct. It wasn't just lightning anymore. It was judgment. Roiling thunder. Cyclonic rage. Divine fury shaped into will.
Kael's eyes burned pure white-blue.
Meanwhile, in the Council Spire…
Alaric stood before the gathered Lords, Lysera at his side. Tension bristled in the chamber. "I'm telling you," he said sharply, "this isn't a random surge. Voidbinders are inside the walls."
Lord Varen sneered. "Another boy's paranoia. You see shadows where there are none."
Alaric stepped forward. "If I'm wrong, throw me in the dungeons. But if I'm right…"
Suddenly the torches dimmed.
A chill swept through the chamber.
The central pillar cracked.
From it stepped a figure cloaked in midnight void, helm shaped like a weeping god's face.
"Too late," the Voidbinder rasped.
Chaos erupted.
Void chains lashed out, snaring the Lords. Alaric reacted first—stone surged from the ground, shielding Lysera. Fire bloomed from his other hand, forcing the intruder back.
A second Voidbinder appeared from the walls. Then a third.
"You brought this on yourselves," the lead one hissed. "The Hollow Heir sends her regards."
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "Tell her next time to come herself."
With a roar, he threw both hands forward—flames and boulders hurled in tandem, slamming the void-walkers back. Lysera joined him, her spear singing with wind aether, carving through black chains like silk.
Back at the Stormspire
Kael stood atop the altar, arms outstretched. His skin had gone bronze-gold from the charge. Lightning crawled across his shoulders like living armor.
His voice echoed with new weight.
"I am Kael Darven. Son of storms. Breaker of chains."
He clapped his hands together.
A pillar of lightning surged into the sky, visible for miles.
The Voidbinders across the city froze. Their cursed net shattered in a blink. The black relics sparked and disintegrated.
In the Council chamber, the lead Voidbinder hissed. "The Thundercore is awakened."
Alaric grinned. "Looks like your storm just got stolen."
He slammed the now-weakened void-walker into the wall with a burst of stone, just as Lysera pinned the second one with a cyclone trap.
The third tried to flee.
A bolt from the sky incinerated him.
Kael stood at the broken gates of the spire, glowing like a godling.