The ruined tower had once been a barracks. Or close enough.
Joe found a room with half a door still intact, and with Riven's help, they stacked broken furniture across the frame. It wouldn't stop anything determined—but it might buy them a minute.
They lit no fire.
Too much risk of drawing attention.
Riven sat near the entrance, sharpening his blade with a whetstone that barely hissed against the steel.
Joe lay on a tattered cot, arms behind his head, staring at the cracked ceiling. "You ever rest?"
Riven didn't look up. "Rest when I know what's watching us is dead or gone."
Joe sighed and turned away. The silence stretched.
Then, quietly, Riven spoke. "My squad used to rest here. Before everything fell."
Joe looked over. "The Hollow Lance?"
Riven nodded. "Seven of us. We weren't heroes. We weren't saints. Just tired people trying to keep others alive. The system marked us early—we adapted. We didn't break."
"What happened?"
Riven didn't answer right away.
"There was a call," he said at last. "A flare deep in the Shattered Gulf. A signal from a village that wasn't supposed to exist anymore. We thought we could help."
His voice grew harder. Colder.
"We walked into a trap. Mimic Blooms. Siphoned our memories. One by one, they sang us apart. I watched brothers and sisters forget their names. Their faces. And then, finally… me."
Joe sat up. "But you made it out."
"Only because I carved their names into my skin," Riven said quietly. "So I wouldn't forget."
Joe was silent. What do you say to that?
Nothing. You just listen.
---
Later, while Riven slept lightly near the door, Joe took watch.
He leaned against the wall, lightning buzzing in his chest like a second heartbeat. His core was growing louder every day. Sharper.
He could feel it now. Like something alive inside him, testing the limits of his body.
And from the window, far across the ridge, a flake of frost drifted into view.
Then another.
Joe turned.
No snowstorm. No clouds. Just one person standing across the pass.
The frost mage.
White robes. Porcelain mask. Bare feet upon the stone. They didn't move. Just watched.
Joe blinked—and they were gone.
---
Elsewhere…
The frost mage stood atop a broken spire, arms folded behind their back, cloak dancing in the wind.
They had seen the fight.
The trial.
The lightning boy learning to survive.
"He adapts faster than I expected," they murmured. Their voice was soft, androgynous.
Behind them, a scroll unraveled in midair—symbols glowing in cold fire.
The mage touched a single rune: Storm Synchronization – Unstable. Core at 63%.
"Soon," they whispered. "He'll need the siphon."
They looked south, where the Well of Pale Flame lay.
And they followed.
---
The next morning…
Joe and Riven left the tower and followed the ridge toward a canyon carved into the earth like a wound.
At the bottom: the Well.
Stone bridges crisscrossed the abyss, many crumbled. Shattered statues of forgotten saints lined the edges, blindfolded and headless. Red mist hung in the air.
"The corruption is stronger here," Riven muttered.
Joe said nothing. The storm inside him was already screaming.
They descended together.
Aberrants stirred.
Twisted humanoids with glowing veins. Crawlers made of bone and tendons. But Joe's magic came faster now. Sharper. He unleashed arcs of controlled lightning that blasted paths through swarms.
When they reached the base, they found it:
A sealed platform. A broken ring of ancient anchors. And in the center, a sigil.
It pulsed when Joe approached.
The storm inside him flared.
Riven took a step back. "Joe?"
Joe was already moving.
He knelt before the sigil and placed his hand on it.
The ground opened.
The stone cracked and lowered into the earth like an elevator descending into flame. Riven leapt down with him just in time.
The Well of Pale Flame had accepted the Stormborn.
And it would test him.