The storm rolled in faster than any natural thing had a right to.
By nightfall, Kaelthorn's towers vanished behind sheets of rain. Windows rattled. The air grew thick, heavy with something ancient and wrong. Not even the lightning dared to flash.
Kaelen stood in the middle of the training yard, soaked to the bone, the red-bladed sword humming against his back like a heartbeat.
The rain whispered his name.
"Kaelen..."
He spun.
Nothing.
Only the outline of Elira at the edge of the courtyard, daggers drawn, her breath misting in the cold.
And then—he arrived.
A ripple in the rain. A flicker where nothing should move.
A man, cloaked in shadows, emerged from the storm like it was his. His mask was porcelain-white and cracked, sculpted into a smile that didn't reach the black eyes behind it. Armor that looked grown, not forged, clung to him like a second skin. Every step he took sizzled against the stone, the ground darkening in his wake.
Kaelen knew without question: this was no assassin. No thief.
This was an envoy of the Hollow Court.
The man bowed low, theatrically. "Shadowbound heir. Your awakening has not gone unnoticed."
Kaelen's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "You're one of them."
"I am sent by one of them," the envoy said, circling. "Lady Tharaxa, the Mouth That Hungers. She extends her regard… and a warning."
Kaelen didn't flinch. "I'm not interested in serving monsters."
"Oh," the envoy said with mock surprise, "but you were made to."
Kaelen drew his sword in a blur of flame and shadow. The air around him cracked, red lightning crawling up the blade.
"I don't care what I was made for. I choose who I become."
The smile in the envoy's voice sharpened. "Let's test that resolve, shall we?"
The duel wasn't one of blades. Not at first.
The air around Kaelen folded inward—screaming. Ghosts of forgotten kings, dying empires, and twisted versions of himself flashed in front of his eyes. A chorus of what ifs and never weres.
He dropped to one knee, clutching his skull.
"You are only a vessel, Kaelen. Let go, and we'll use you well…"
"This is power. You've tasted nothing yet."
"Let us in."
Then—Elira's voice cut through it.
"Kaelen. Breathe. You're stronger than their lies."
That was enough.
Kaelen stood.
The fire returned to his blade, red and alive, hungry, but his. The whispers shrieked and shattered like glass.
He slashed.
A crescent arc of red light tore through the rain, striking the envoy full in the chest.
For a moment, everything froze.
Then the envoy staggered back, mask cracked, blood black as ink leaking down his side.
"…Promising," he rasped. "More than we expected."
He backed into the storm, melting into the downpour like it welcomed him home.
"This was a gift, Kaelen. Next time... we come to claim you."
Later that night, Kaelen sat in silence, the sword resting beside him, its glow faint and low.
"Elira," he said softly, "what if there's more to this than fighting them?"
"What do you mean?"
"What if… I'm not meant to defy the Hollow Court…"
He looked at the blood still staining his hands.
"What if I'm meant to replace them?"