The wind carried the scent of smoke and damp earth as Kael stood at the edge of the camp, his limbs heavy from the Trial. His hands trembled, not from weakness—but from the echo of what he had seen.
Not illusions.
Not dreams.
Reflections.
Of who he could become… or already was.
The elder approached, cloak rustling, a leather pouch in hand. "She's stable. For now."
Kael exhaled slowly. Relief, sharp and fleeting. "Can I see her?"
The elder nodded. "She'll wake by moonrise."
Kael's shoulders slumped, just a little. He didn't realize how tightly his muscles had been wound until that moment.
But the elder wasn't finished. He held out the pouch.
"This is yours now. Ashroot, binding wax, and a sealstone carved from the First Blood Tree. They will quiet the shard when it stirs."
Kael accepted it. The pouch was light. But it felt like iron in his hand.
"What happens when it stirs louder than these can silence?"
The old man's eyes met his. "Then you either master it… or it masters you."
Kael nodded. He already knew the answer.
That night, as Aria slept beneath woven blankets, Kael stood guard outside her tent.
Lyra joined him, silent for a while. She had changed—something behind her eyes had shifted since entering this place.
"I saw what you did," she said, finally. "Most don't survive the Trial. You didn't just survive—you endured it."
Kael didn't reply.
Lyra leaned against a tree trunk, arms crossed. "There's something in the elder's eyes when he looks at you. Like recognition."
"I don't know what he sees," Kael muttered. "I barely know what I am anymore."
She turned to him. "Then let me remind you. You're the one who ran into the storm when others fled. You're the one who held her hand when it shook. And you're the one who chose pain over power."
Kael looked away. "Words don't change what's coming."
"No," Lyra agreed. "But oaths do."
She pulled a small blade from her belt—ornate, clean, and sharp. She drew it across her palm, just enough to bleed, then held it out.
"I swore my blade to your path the night you saved us in the frost hills. Tonight, I swear it again—not to your bloodline, but to you."
Kael hesitated.
Then he took the blade, sliced his palm, and pressed it to hers.
The blood mingled. The pact sealed.
By dawn, Aria stirred.
Kael rushed to her side as her eyes fluttered open. "Kael?" she whispered, voice hoarse.
"I'm here," he said, taking her hand gently.
She gripped his fingers, weak but alive. "I saw them. In the dark. Faces. My mother's. Yours."
Kael said nothing.
Aria's lip quivered. "I don't know what I am anymore."
Kael leaned in close. "You're Aria. That's enough."
A tear slid down her cheek. "But for how long?"
He couldn't answer.
But outside the tent, Lyra stood with her blade, the mark of their oath still fresh on her hand.
And in the forest beyond, something watched. Waiting.
The storm hadn't passed.
It had only paused.