The sun rose over Velmire's palace like a reluctant ember, casting long shadows across stone corridors steeped in centuries of bloodlines and betrayals.
Kaelen's morning began with a knock.
Not Zevien this time, but a stern woman in steel-gray robes, her eyes as sharp as a drawn blade.
"Kaelen Cindral," she said without preamble. "Training begins now."
Before Kaelen could question who she was, she had already turned on her heel and walked briskly down the corridor, expecting him to follow. He did.
She led him through the eastern wing, where ancient murals painted tales of elemental triumphs—of the Flame King Seradin, of Aelir the Windcaller, of water-sorcerers drowning armies in whirlpools of ice. The Cindral line had always been elemental, blessed by the old gods. Kaelen felt the pulse of thunder in his veins as he passed beneath those painted legends.
They emerged in a vast open-air training arena, rimmed with glass-like obsidian. A dozen soldiers in polished armor stood waiting, along with a man in dark blue robes—clearly a court mage, judging by the arcane runes sewn into his cuffs.
And waiting in the center, fire in her hair and fury in her stance, was Seris.
She did not bother hiding her disdain.
"You'll be training with me," she announced, arms crossed. "Since you claim to be royal blood, it's time you earned the title."
Kaelen glanced around. "What exactly are we doing?"
Seris tossed him a wooden staff. "Surviving."
She struck first.
Kaelen barely brought the staff up in time to block. The force of her blow reverberated up his arms, and before he could counter, she pivoted and swept his legs from beneath him. He hit the stone hard, breath whooshing out of his lungs.
"That was fast," he wheezed.
"You'll die even faster if you don't learn to move," Seris snapped.
For the next hour, she pressed him mercilessly—striking, taunting, punishing every mistake with the edge of her staff or a burst of controlled flame that singed the air beside his cheek. Kaelen didn't win. He barely stayed conscious.
But he learned.
By the end, he was bloodied, breathless, and smiling.
"You're insane," Seris muttered, wiping sweat from her brow.
Kaelen struggled to his feet. "And you're scared."
That stopped her.
"Of what?" she asked, cold.
"That I might belong."
—
Later, Kaelen found himself summoned to the Library of Echoes—a massive domed chamber filled with tomes bound in dragonhide and glass, watched over by sentient candelabras that moved on their own.
The court mage from earlier was waiting.
"I am Magister Hareth," he said. "You will learn to control your elemental gift before it consumes you. Thunder is not a gentle inheritance."
Kaelen hesitated. "Why me?"
"Because thunder is chaos. The gods only gift it to those born to shake the world."
He led Kaelen to a stone circle inscribed with ancient glyphs and gestured for him to stand inside.
"Summon it," Hareth said. "The lightning. Feel it. Call it to your will."
Kaelen inhaled, grounding himself. He reached for the storm inside him—the pressure in his chest, the electricity dancing beneath his skin. He clenched his fist…
Crack.
A thin arc of lightning leapt from his fingertips to the runes on the floor. The chamber trembled.
"Again," said Hareth, smiling faintly. "You are not a whisper of thunder, Kaelen. You are a storm."
—
That evening, during the palace feast, Kaelen sat at the end of the royal table. Eyes watched him from every direction—nobles weighing his worth, ministers plotting angles. The queen spoke not a word to him. The king observed quietly.
Seris ignored him. Aedric glared. Zevien, as usual, smirked.
"So how was your first day as a real prince?" Zevien asked between bites of roasted venison.
"Burning. And bruising," Kaelen muttered.
"I warned you," Zevien chuckled. "Seris trains like she fights—without mercy."
Aedric set down his goblet. "We're not here to play games."
"No," Kaelen replied. "But someone is playing one. You're all just scared I'm not the pawn."
The room went still.
Then, from further down the hall, a guard burst into the feast hall, panting.
"Your Majesty," the man gasped. "There's… an incident. At the border."
The king stood. "Speak."
The guard bowed low. "Raiders. From Cierath. Black sigils. They've taken the southern post near Fellspire Ridge. A dozen soldiers dead."
The queen's face paled. Whispers erupted.
"The Dark Kingdom moves again," Seris murmured.
Aedric's expression hardened like ice.
Kaelen didn't fully understand, but he recognized war when he heard it.
The king's voice echoed with steel. "Summon the generals. Prepare the court. And…"
He turned to Kaelen.
"…double his training."
—
Far beyond the palace, in the scorched halls of Cierath, a dark sorceress raised her hand to a map covered in blood.
"The thunder boy draws power quickly," she said, fingers caressing Velmire's sigil. "But storms break as easily as they form."
She turned to a cloaked figure in the shadows—his eyes gleaming like a serpent's.
"Send the Wraith Blades. Let's test the Cindral heir's lightning."