A silence like drawn steel hung in the air. The floating arena—vast, radiant, suspended above clouds like a crown of light—seemed to hold its breath as the Third Branch finished their descent.
Their leader landed with soundless grace, and behind him, his cloaked followers moved as one—tall, still, and utterly composed.
Then—softly, deliberately—he inclined his head toward the high dais where the Main Bloodline sat.
"Greetings to the House of Zephyr Nasarik," he said, voice smooth and deliberate, like silk drawn over glass. "It's been centuries since our shadows last touched the same sky."
From his throne of silverwood and crystal, Lord Zephyr Nasarik rose slowly. He didn't exude power; he was power, his presence bending the air itself into stillness. His pale eyes gleamed like tempered storms.
"Touched," he repeated, calm and resonant. "An interesting choice of word. Some would say your shadows tried to consume this sky once."
The leader's smile didn't falter. "We only sought evolution, not ruin. The bloodline needed to move beyond mortal confines."
Zephyr's expression remained unchanged—serene, but glacial. "And in your pursuit of 'beyond,' you became less than human."
A hush swept through the gathered audience—patriarchs, descendants, emissaries of divine houses. Even the wind seemed to listen.
Finally, the Third Branch's leader gave a small, knowing nod. "Perhaps. But evolution isn't meant to be comfortable, Lord Zephyr."
Zephyr's hand rose—slender, elegant—and the air hummed faintly in response, the runes across the arena vibrating. "Then let us see," he said, "whose evolution endures the trial of time."
The ancient runes ignited. Golden light traced the sky's rim. The tension snapped into motion.
The House of Vaelith was first, Aldric leading his kin, wind swirling gently at his feet. The crowd cheered for the returning heroes of the frontlines—Aldric, Mael, Kael, and Calen—names now carved into legend.
The Allied Houses of Nasarik followed—Veyr, Solareth, Zephyrion, and Tarin, each bearing their distinct elemental crests that shimmered with mana signatures older than nations.
When it came time for the Second Branch of Nasarik, murmurs filled the air. Their final representative was announced in a clear, commanding voice:
"Eryndor Nasarik Vaelith — the Dual Storm, bearer of the Astral Flow and inheritor of the Eightfold Path."
Eryndor stepped forward without haste. His black trench coat fluttered slightly in the wind; his expression unreadable, his eyes holding a flicker of anticipation that mirrored lightning before a storm.
Whispers rippled through the stands. Even among divine families, dual affinities were rare—and in his case, one could almost feel the storm coiling within.
The Third Branch waited until the very end. When their leader raised his hand, the herald's voice faltered for the first time that night.
"Lazarus Nasarik… head of the Third Bloodline, founder of the Abyssal Order, bearer of the Eclipsed Sigil."
Gasps spread through the grandstands. The name was legend. The kind that once existed in whispered bedtime stories and forbidden archives.
Lazarus's crimson eyes scanned the main dais, finally resting on Eryndor. His gaze was calm—dissecting, but not unkind.
"So you're the spark," he said quietly. "The blood that defied slumber."
Eryndor tilted his head, faint amusement ghosting across his lips. "And you're the one that turned sleep into rebellion."
A few nobles in the stands whispered at his audacity, but Eryndor didn't care. Zephyr Nasarik watched from his throne, the faintest hint of a smile forming on his lips—just enough that Aldric muttered to himself:
"Oh, he's proud. He won't say it, but he's proud."
Mael snorted under his breath. "Proud? He's grinning because Eryndor's just as arrogant as he was at twenty."
"Silence," Aldric hissed—but his smirk betrayed his agreement.
The tension dissolved as Zephyr raised a hand. "The Convergence Tournament will begin at sunrise. Tonight, all branches shall dine in the Hall of Origin. Speak no oaths, draw no blades, and let the storm rest—until dawn."
At his command, the runes dimmed, and the hum of mana softened to a low, throbbing calm.
As the families made their way toward the glowing hall, Eryndor lingered for a moment on the edge of the platform. The air up here was thinner, colder—but it carried a purity he liked.
Kael joined him, hands in pockets. "So. That's the guy we're all supposed to be terrified of."
Eryndor glanced sideways. "You scared?"
Kael smirked. "A little. Mostly for him."
Aldric's voice came from behind them. "Don't get too confident. Lazarus once dueled a god and walked away."
Eryndor's expression didn't change. "Then he should be fun to meet."
Inside the Hall of Origin, chandeliers of star-crystal floated weightlessly above the tables. Divine wine glimmered in clear glasses, and celestial music thrummed softly in the background.
Eryndor sat beside Aldric and Zephyr, his posture relaxed yet alert. Across the room, Lazarus and his cloaked retainers dined in silence.
When Lazarus raised his cup, his gaze met Eryndor's once more. "To the storm reborn," he said.
Eryndor lifted his glass. "To the abyss that still thinks it can drown it."
A faint crack of static flickered between their table settings.
Zephyr didn't intervene. He simply leaned back, his calm voice drifting across to Aldric: "The blood runs strong this generation."
Aldric exhaled. "Too strong. It's like watching lightning flirt with a hurricane."
Zephyr smiled thinly. "Let's hope it doesn't fall in love."
That night, long after the feast ended, the floating arena glowed silently in the dark sky.
The main family rested.
The second prepared.
The third—watched.
And high above, unseen by all, the ancient Ancestor's mark on Eryndor's soul flickered once—like an ember awakening in the wind.
Tomorrow, the storm would break.