Chapter 10
Tide of Claws and Steel
The rhythm had become as natural as breathing. Days spent consolidating his identity on Aethelgard, nights—stretching into months—forged in the fires of Valeria. Kaelen had settled into the dual existence with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Each return to his apartment was followed by a day of deliberate stabilization: reviewing Federal news, practicing the subtle art of hiding his enhanced coordination, and mentally partitioning the flood of Renly's experiences.
It was during one such consolidation period, as he monitored the escalating political tensions over Elysian on the news feeds, that he felt the familiar pull. The autopilot was reporting in, not with words, but with a surge of primal urgency that traveled the silver cord. Something was happening on Valeria. Something big.
He didn't hesitate, he projected with a single, focused intent: Assess. Survive.
The transition was seamless. One moment he was in his sterile apartment, the next he was standing on the high stone walls of Lord Corvan's castle, the wind whipping through Renly's—no, his—hair. He blinked, instantly taking stock.
The body he inhabited was no longer that of a growing squire. It was a 18 year old man's body, powerfully built, with muscles coiled like steel springs and a posture of ingrained readiness. The autopilot had been more than effective; it had been exceptional. Two subjective years of relentless training, guided by his optimized forms and the Breath of the Wild, had honed Renly's form to its absolute peak. He felt a deep, thrumming well of vital force in his core, a reservoir of power waiting to be tapped.
But his personal transformation was a footnote to the scene before him.
The world had gone mad.
Below the walls, the land seethed with a living tide of nightmares. The familiar, chitinous forms of Shadow-Stalkers darted with their usual terrifying speed, but they were just the vanguard. Behind them came hulking Scale-Tusks, beasts the size of arable bovines, their backs covered in rock-like plates and sporting tusks that glowed with the same earthen energy as the boar he'd faced long ago. The air above was a shrieking maelstrom of Razor-Beaked Vultures, their wingspans vast, diving to rake at defenders on the battlements with talons that could shred steel.
This was no random attack. It was a coordinated assault. The beasts weren't just mindlessly charging; they were testing, probing, and supporting each other. The Scale-Tusks used their tremor ability to destabilize defensive formations, while Stalkers exploited the openings. The Vultures harried anyone trying to organize a counter-attack.
Chaos reigned. The air was thick with the screams of men, the bellows of beasts, the scent of blood, and the ozone-tang of unleashed bloodline abilities. Knights, their eyes flashing with elemental power, stood as bastions, but they were too few. Ser Joric was a whirlwind of copper-hued motion, felling Stalkers with impossible speed, but he couldn't be everywhere.
Kaelen's Federation-trained mind, accustomed to processing complex data streams, didn't see chaos. He saw a system in collapse. He saw vectors of force, weak points, and logistical failures.
He wasn't the strongest fighter on the wall, but he quickly became the most effective.
He fought with the impeccable skill Renly's body had earned, his movements a blend of traditional Valerian forms and his own hyper-efficient adjustments. He didn't waste a single motion. A precise thrust here to blind a Scale-Tusk's eye, a deflecting parry there to send a Stalker tumbling from the wall. But his true weapon was his voice and his perception.
"To the left! The barricade by the gatehouse is buckling!" he roared, his voice cutting through the din with an authority that wasn't entirely Renly's. A group of men-at-arms, stunned into obedience, rushed to reinforce it, propping up the structure moments before a Scale-Tusk charged.
He saw a flank of archers about to be overrun by Stalkers that had scaled a shadowed section of the wall. "Archers, fall back to the secondary platform! You there, with the pikes! Cover their retreat!" The soldiers moved, and the pike wall he directed formed just in time to impale the leaping creatures.
He wasn't giving grand, inspirational speeches. He was issuing crisp, tactical commands, his mind operating like a combat computer, calculating angles, trajectories, and unit movements. He saved men not by taking on a dozen beasts alone, but by being in the right place at the right time with the right order.
During a brief lull in the assault on his section, he found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with a bleeding Ser Joric. The older Knight was breathing heavily, his armor dented and scratched.
"Your eyes, boy," Joric grunted, deflecting a Vulture's dive with his vambrace. "You're not just looking. You're seeing. You fight like you've done this a hundred times before."
Kaelen didn't answer, simply pointing to a new development. A group of Scale-Tusks were gathering for a coordinated charge on the main gate, their tusks beginning to glow in unison. The resulting tremor could shatter the reinforced wood.
"We need to break their formation before they build momentum!" Kaelen shouted.
Joric nodded, a grim light in his eyes. "Aye. You, me, and Eldric can gather. We hit them from the sally port. A quick, hard strike and back."
It was a suicide mission. But it was the only move on the board.
As they prepared to descend into the killing field below, Kaelen felt a strange calm. This was the crucible. The autopilot had brought him to the brink of power, but the final step, the ignition of a Bloodline, required something more. It required a moment where survival demanded the impossible.
The gate trembled under the first synchronized tremor from the gathering beasts. The battle for the castle, for Renly's life, and for Kaelen's future, was about to reach its climax.