The training yard was quiet save for the hiss of magic and the faint groan of a blackened old oak tree. Elias Arondite sat atop a jagged rock, one leg drawn up, the other dangling, with the sun at his back, green eyes narrowed against the glare. His hair, brown streaked faintly red, clung damp to his brow. The leather breastplate hugged close to his frame, the Arondite crest stamped into its heart, the shoulder plate catching stray glints of light as he shifted.
At his side, leaning on the rock, was a sword, forged of Mooncell, it glimmered and shimmered when drawn in daylight.
At fifteen, Elias was already a prodigy—though he would have called himself merely impatient.
With a flick of his wrist, the air before him crackled. Light twisted and writhed in arcs of silver-blue, singing with the sound of a thousand tiny storms. Elias channeled his energy, forcing his mind into the rhythm of the current, but as always, control eluded him. The bolt shot forward, veering wide, and scorched the bark of an old oak just beyond the target. Smoke curled lazily from its branches.
He cursed softly, not loud enough for anyone else to hear. "Damn it… not again."
He focused on the leather-bound tome in his hand, that had been his companion for years. Its pages were filled with notes and meticulous calculations, all in his precise handwriting. Elias scribbled furiously:
"Observation: lightning becomes increasingly unstable beyond 24 meters. Control decreases exponentially with distance. Requires new focus techniques and improved ether calibration."
He paused, eyeing the scorched tree, and allowed himself a small grimace. Each failure was a lesson, and he intended to learn faster than the lightning learned to escape him.
As he wrote, he noticed the movement from the corner of his vision. A group of soldiers lingered at the edge of the field, watching him. Their armor gleamed in the afternoon sun, polished and heavy, and their eyes darted nervously between Elias and his magic.
Why do they even bother? Elias thought. They have steel and muscle, and I have this. At this point, they are nothing but meat bags—pawns on a board they barely understand.
He rose, stretching, and ran a hand through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead. Cedric would have laughed at him, Elias thought. His older brother had always been braver, more reckless, and yet somehow safer in his daring. Together they had ventured into Abyssar, facing monsters and wild magic that would have torn ordinary mages apart. Rhea, on the other hand, would have looked disdainfully at the tree, turning to illusion to erase the scorch mark before anyone noticed. Vanity had always been her ally.
Elias shut the book with a snap, the echo carrying faintly across the training yard. Distance, trajectory, control—words meant nothing if he could not bend the storm to his will. Perhaps it was not a question of precision at all. Perhaps he had been too stingy with the ether, letting the bolt grow thin and wild the farther it traveled.
This time he would smother it in power.
He raised his hand, palm forward, and reached deeper. The ether gathered swiftly, drawn from the well within until the hair on his arm stood on end and the air turned metallic. Sparks crackled along his skin. His heart pounded, every beat a drum for the lightning to march to.
For a breath, the world held still—charged, waiting.
Then he loosed it.
The sky seemed to split with light and sound. A white-blue arc roared across the field, so violent the crack of thunder followed instantly, rattling the ground beneath his boots. The boom rolled off the yard's stone walls, scattering a flock of crows from the ramparts.
The bolt struck the wooden post squarely, shattering it into splinters that sprayed across the dirt. Smoke poured from the ruined target, acrid and thick.
Elias staggered. His breath caught in his throat, ears ringing. Pain lanced through his hand and wrist; he hissed as he forced his fingers to uncurl. They were stiff, tingling, uncooperative. His arm throbbed as though plunged into a frozen river and seared by fire in the same instant. He grimaced, flexing clumsy, half-numb fingers.
Better. Stronger. But not mastered.
At the edge of the yard, the soldiers no longer whispered. They stared, tense and unspeaking, one man's hand tightening on his spear.
The last wisps of smoke still curled from the shattered post when a voice cut across the yard.
"Seven hells, Elias—what did that poor target ever do to you? Disintegrated clean through. You'll give the carpenters more work than the rebels."
Elias turned, jaw tight, though the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. Cedric Arondite strode in from the gate, broad-shouldered, his cloak thrown back, the light catching on the faint tracery of runes stitched into his sleeve. His older brother carried himself with the easy confidence of one who had braved Abyssar and returned to tell the tale.
Elias flexed his hand behind his back, trying to hide the stiffness. His fingers still tingled, reluctant to obey. Cedric's green eyes—darker than Elias's, sharper—swept over him all the same.
"Your hand," Cedric said, voice losing its mirth. "Is it well?"
"It's nothing." Elias lifted it, forcing the fingers to curl and uncurl. The movement was clumsy, but he managed it. "I pushed more ether than necessary. An experiment."
Cedric raised a brow. "An experiment to see how close you could come to maiming yourself? You've Mother's stubbornness in you. But at least she knew when to stop."
Elias looked away, reaching for the sword that leaned against the stone. The Mooncell shimmered faintly as he slid it free of the dust. The weight steadied him. "Better my hand than my pride."
Cedric snorted. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "A messenger came not long ago. Word from the capital. We are summoned to Last-Build. Rhea is already fussing over the carriage, dressing as though she means to outshine the queen herself."
"Of course she is," Elias muttered. Then, more sharply: "And the rebels? Have they been dealt with?"
Cedric's grin returned, wolfish. "Dealt with. Burnt out of their holes. The young king has his throne secure—at least for a fortnight."
Elias sheathed his sword in a slow, deliberate motion, the leather scabbard creaking. His arm still ached, but the steel steadied him. "Grandfather… is he already in Last-Build?"
"Aye," Cedric said. "And he'll be waiting. Come, little brother. We've tarried long enough in shadows. The game is moving to the capital now."
Elias glanced once more at the blackened post, then at the soldiers still lingering at the edges of the yard, their faces caught between awe and fear. He said nothing to them. Instead, he followed Cedric toward the gate, sword at his side, the scent of scorched wood clinging to the air behind him.
Elias and Cedric crossed the courtyard, boots grinding against gravel slick with the remnants of last night's rain. The keep loomed behind them, half-swallowed by ivy and shadow, its high towers glinting faintly in the lowering sun. The air smelled of wet stone and burned wood — his own doing, Elias thought ruefully.
By the gate, a carriage waited. Its lacquered black surface reflected the red flare of dusk, and the coat of arms of House Arondite was carved into the door: a sword over a crescent moon. Two horses stamped restlessly, snorting clouds into the cooling air.
Rhea stood beside it, wrapped in a gown of violet trimmed with silver thread that caught the light like frost. Her golden hair was twisted into a crown braid, a deliberate statement of grace and power. Elias had no doubt she'd been arranging herself since dawn.
"About time," she said, eyes flicking between them. "I was beginning to think you'd both forgotten what punctuality meant."
Cedric offered a half-bow, smirking. "Forgive us, dear sister. Elias was busy obliterating the training yard. I thought it polite to let him finish destroying something before we left."
Elias rolled his eyes and climbed into the carriage without replying. The air inside smelled faintly of lavender and leather — and Rhea's expensive perfume. Cedric followed, shutting the door with a solid thud. Outside, the driver clicked his tongue, and the carriage lurched forward with a groan of wheels and the steady rhythm of hooves.
For a while, none of them spoke. The countryside rolled past — fields, distant woods, the faint outline of the river that split the valley like a vein of molten silver. Elias watched it all through the glass, the reflection of his face ghosting over the landscape.
"You've heard, I assume," Rhea said at last, her tone light but edged. "About the king's invitation?"
Cedric leaned back, stretching his legs. "Summons, not invitation. There's a difference. One has wine and courtiers; the other ends in gallows."
"Dramatic, as always." Rhea's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Still, it's not every day a boy of seventeen reshapes the realm and calls on mages to do it. The priests call it blasphemy. The nobles call it madness."
Elias turned from the window. "And what do you call it?"
Rhea regarded him for a long moment, the carriage light flickering across her face. "Opportunity," she said simply. "For those clever enough to survive it."
The words lingered in the air like smoke. Outside, thunder rumbled far off over the plains — faint, but distinct. Elias's fingers twitched at the sound. He thought of the burned oak, the smell of ozone still clinging to his clothes, the way the soldiers had looked at him — half in awe, half in fear.
He wondered how the people of Last-Build would look at him.
The carriage crested a hill. Ahead, the horizon glimmered with faint lights — the first glint of the capital, distant yet immense, like a constellation fallen to earth. Cedric leaned forward, his usual grin tempered now by something sharper, more deliberate.
"Whatever waits there," he said, his voice low, "remember this, little brother — power never sits idle. If we don't wield it, someone else will."
Elias nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the horizon. The city shimmered in the darkening sky, vast and alive, and somewhere within it waited their grandfather, the boy king, and the storm that was coming for them all.
The wheels struck stone, and the carriage rolled on toward Last-Build.