KAELEN STORMRIDER
Kaelen's lungs burned as he fought against the relentless pull of the sea. The waves crashed around him, each one threatening to drag him under again, but he refused to surrender. His vision blurred with saltwater, and his heart hammered in his chest, but he clawed his way to the surface once more, coughing and gasping for air.
The storm was unforgiving. Above him, the sky cracked with another vicious bolt of lightning, illuminating the churning black waters around him. The air was thick with the scent of salt and the electric tang of the storm's raw power. Each gust of wind felt like a slap to his skin, sharp and biting, and the waves, impossibly high, continued to batter him from every direction.
His hands stung as they skimmed the surface of the water, fingers digging into the wild sea in a desperate search for something to hold onto. His mind raced, his instincts kicking into overdrive as he tried to force his way toward anything that might remain of The Leviathan. But it was no use. The ship had disappeared beneath the waves—its once-mighty hull shattered beyond recognition, splintered by the waves like a toy in the hands of a giant.
"Fucking damn it!" Kaelen cursed under his breath, his voice barely audible over the roar of the storm.
His mind flashed to his crew—the men who had served him faithfully, who had followed him into countless battles and stormy seas. His first mate, Orin. The men who had laughed with him around the campfire, shared stories of the past, and lived for the thrill of the open water. Kaelen could feel the weight of their loss already, a sharp, heavy ache in his chest that gnawed at him.
And yet… something inside of him refused to give in to the despair. They weren't dead, not all of them. There had to be survivors, scattered across the waves, struggling to stay afloat like he was. He couldn't let the storm take them without a fight.
Grimly, Kaelen forced himself to focus. He had to find something. Anything. The storm was closing in around him, but his mind was still clear, his training as a swordsman and his connection to the sea grounding him, even in this chaos.
He kicked his legs beneath the water, swimming against the current as best as he could, pushing through the endless waves. His muscles screamed in protest, his body aching with every movement, but he refused to stop. He would find them. He would find something.
After what felt like hours, Kaelen's eyes finally caught sight of something—a broken piece of wood, drifting lazily in the water. It was a mast, or part of one, torn from The Leviathan in the earlier chaos. Without hesitation, he swam toward it, his body sinking with exhaustion but his resolve burning hot within him. Grabbing hold of the debris, he clung to it as a lifeline, pulling himself up onto it, even as the waves threatened to sweep him back into the sea.
The wood creaked and groaned beneath his weight, but it held. His chest heaved as he lay flat on the surface, staring up at the storm-darkened sky. His breathing was ragged, his eyes unfocused as the storm raged around him. The fury of the winds and waves was unlike anything he had ever experienced, and even his storm magic, which had always been his greatest ally, was no match for the overwhelming force of the spirits now tearing at him.
For a moment, he let himself drift, half-conscious, the water slapping against his face, his mind slipping in and out of a haze. He didn't know how long he was there—an hour? Two? The sea was vast and endless, and the storm seemed to stretch on forever, as if it had no intention of relenting.
Then, something changed.
The air shifted. The storm, for all its fury, felt… different.
Kaelen's eyes snapped open, his instincts flaring, and his grip on the mast tightened. There was something—something wrong—about the storm now. The violent winds that had been battering him suddenly slowed, as though the very air had been sucked out of it. The waves, though still high, no longer seemed as relentless. And the temperature dropped. His breath fogged in the air, a chill that was more than just the coldness of the sea.
Kaelen's heart skipped a beat. This wasn't the end of the storm. This was the beginning of something else.
A low hum rose from the depths of the ocean. A soft, eerie sound, like a whisper carried on the wind. But Kaelen knew—knew with every fiber of his being—that the whisper was not from the storm. It came from the water, from beneath it. And it was a warning.
The sea trembled beneath him, and his storm-gray and lightning-gold eyes widened as the water began to swirl violently, the waves twisting and converging in unnatural patterns. He looked around, panic rising in his chest, but he saw nothing—only the blackened sky above and the endless stretch of the sea below. And then, it happened.
A shadow—a massive, dark shape—broke the surface of the water, its form barely discernible in the chaotic storm. It was enormous, moving with a purpose, like an ancient beast risen from the deep, something older than any living thing. Kaelen's breath caught in his throat as he realized what it was.
A spirit.
Not just any spirit, but a guardian—a force of the sea, something that had slumbered beneath the waves, waiting for the moment to awaken. And now, it had been roused. Roused by him. Roused by the intrusion of his fleet into Druumari's sacred waters.
The waves rose higher, and the shadow in the water seemed to grow, its form shifting with an unnatural fluidity, as if the sea itself were alive and willing the storm to take shape. It was a creature, but not one made of flesh and bone—it was a manifestation of the spirit itself, a physical representation of the power that the druids of Druumari had long worshipped. Its eyes were glowing with an eerie, ghostly light, and its form seemed to stretch on for miles beneath the water, a presence so vast that Kaelen could feel it pressing against his chest.
The creature didn't just emerge from the sea—it controlled it.
With a cry of fury, Kaelen scrambled to maintain his grip on the debris. The shipwrecked mast was no longer a safety; it was merely a pawn in the greater battle between the spirits of the sea and the men who had dared to invade their territory.
The storm surged again, more violently than before, and Kaelen felt the power of it—he could taste it in the air. It was not a storm that could be beaten, not one that could be stopped by mere force. It was the will of the spirits, and it would take everything Kaelen had to survive.
He had failed. His fleet was destroyed. His men were scattered. The battle had been lost, but the war… the war was far from over. The question was no longer whether he could defeat the storm. The question now was whether he could survive the wrath of the spirits.
And if he did, what would be left for him on the other side?
In that moment, Kaelen Stormrider knew one thing for certain. This storm, this force, had been summoned for him. And he was about to face the consequences of defying the spirits of Druumari.