The air in Drastmere always smelled faintly of stone dust and pine sap. Mountain winds carried the tang of cold metal from the ancient clockwork relics that jutted out of the cliffs, their gears long since ground to a halt. To Kaelen, that smell had always been home. But as he walked the cobbled path through the market square, the villagers' eyes followed him like shadows, and "home" felt more like a narrow ledge where one wrong step might send him tumbling.
The scar burned faintly today. A jagged trail of pale lightning ran down his right shoulder, across his arm, all the way to his fingertips. Some mornings it was quiet, just an old wound. But when clouds gathered over the mountains, like a shroud about to descend, the scar came alive.
When the clouds pressed heavily on the mountains, like today, the scar hummed beneath his skin. Kaelen flexed his fingers, frustration and anxiety flickering beneath his calm exterior. He tried to ignore the sensation, trying to act like he was the same as everyone else while dread coiled quietly within.
"Storm-blood," someone muttered as he passed.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. He didn't look to see who had said it. Maybe it was the fishmonger arranging his catch, or the woman sweeping her doorstep. In Drastmere, whispers were like nettles: low, constant, and sharp if you brushed too close. He kept walking, shoulders squared, carrying the bundle of firewood he'd split that morning.
The blacksmith, old Fargan, caught his eye from across the square and gave him a nod, as if to say: Don't listen to them, boy. Fargan was one of the few who'd spoken to him without suspicion since the lightning strike. But even Fargan's kindness was measured, quiet. No one in Drastmere forgot how unnatural the storm had been, how it split the sky with white fire in the dead of a clear night, how it chose Kaelen alone.
Kaelen shifted the wood against his hip and turned toward the inn, where Ordon had asked him to meet after training.
That was when he froze, heart thudding in his chest as tension tightened every muscle.
A figure in a traveler's cloak was stepping into the square from the north road, hood pulled back, silver hair catching the mountain light like threads of spun moonlight. She carried a bow across her back, a satchel slung at her hip, and the walk of someone who had crossed long miles without slowing.
Erynn Talos.
The bundle of wood slid slightly in Kaelen's grip before he caught it. Seven years since he'd last seen her, and yet in an instant the memory was alive: two children racing across the rope bridge that swayed high over the gorge, her laughter echoing like bells as he tried not to look down. She had left when they were ten; her family had set out for the Wastes in search of trade routes and survival. He hadn't expected to see her again.
For a moment, he wondered if the scar was playing tricks on his eyes.
Erynn stopped just inside the square. She pushed the hood back further, scanning the villagers with sharp, cautious eyes. She looked older, leaner, her face more angled than the round-cheeked girl he remembered. There was steel in the way she held herself, but also the same restless energy, like a hawk ready to take flight.
Her gaze found him.
Kaelen's chest tightened.
Then, she smiled. "Well," she said, loud enough for the nearest stall keepers to hear, "if it isn't the boy who used to fall off every bridge in Drastmere."
A ripple of startled murmurs swept the square. A few villagers chuckled, others frowned, but all eyes flicked between Kaelen and the silver-haired newcomer.
Kaelen set down his bundle of wood slowly. His voice, when it came, was steadier than he felt. "I never fell. I jumped."
Erynn raised a brow. "Is that what you told yourself while you dangled from the ropes screaming for me to pull you up?"
Laughter broke out among the children nearby, who had gathered to watch. Even old Fargan chuckled into his beard. The tension around Kaelen loosened, if only slightly.
Erynn crossed the square in a few quick strides and stopped in front of him. She smelled of pine resin and smoke, like someone who had lived half her life on the road. "You look different," she said, tilting her head, eyes flicking briefly to the faint glow of his scar. "But still the same."
Kaelen didn't know what to say. For years, he had been a curiosity, an outcast, a reminder of something unnatural. And now here she was, speaking to him like no time had passed at all.
"You came back," he mumbled.
Her smile struck them; the villagers shifted, some happy, some not so much. Some whispered about 'wastelanders' and wondered if trouble followed them. Others, who remembered Erynn as a barefoot girl running through the square.
"Why now?" Kaelen asked.
"I bring news," Erynn said, lowering her voice. "The Shard King's armies are moving along the southern trade roads. Villages are vanishing. Not burned, not looted. Just… gone." She glanced around at the listening crowd. "I came to warn Drastmere."
The words hit like stones. Villagers exchanged anxious looks. A child clutched her mother's skirts.
Kaelen felt the scar throb faintly against his arm, as if in recognition of the name. The Shard King. He had been a distant rumor for most of Kaelen's life, a story to frighten children into obedience. But now the whispers had sharp edges.
Erynn must have seen the flicker in his expression, because she gave him a sharp, searching look, as if she already knew he carried more than firewood.
"Come," Kaelen said finally. "We should talk away from the square."
They walked the path out of the market, across the rope bridge that swayed over the gorge. Erynn's stride was steady, though she kept glancing at the cliffs as if expecting an ambush. Kaelen wondered how many roads she had walked to become so vigilant.
"Seven years," she said softly as they reached the other side. "And you didn't even write."
"You didn't either," Kaelen replied. He tried to keep his voice light, but it came out heavier than he meant.
Her eyes softened. "Fair."
They followed the trail upward toward the watchtower ruins where they used to play as children. The climb was steep, the stones uneven, but neither of them stumbled. Kaelen noticed how easily she carried herself now, bow shifting on her back like it belonged there. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him: a boy still trying to prove himself, or something else.
When they reached the overlook, the valley spread below them in layers. The sun dipped behind the western peaks, washing the cliffs in gold. For a moment, neither spoke.
Finally, Erynn said, "The scar. Does it hurt?"
Kaelen flexed his fingers. The faint hum of electricity pulsed under his skin, alive as breath. "Sometimes."
"And the blade?" Her gaze flicked to the hilt of Voltari, strapped across his back. "That's not just steel." Kaelen hesitated. He had never spoken openly about Voltari to anyone but Ordon. The blade sang to him when he drew it, alive with lightning, as if it remembered something older than he did, something from an ancient battleground where storm and earth once clashed. But standing here with Erynn, it felt strangely natural to answer.
"It chose me," he said simply.
She studied him for a long moment, then looked back toward the valley. "The world's changing, Kael. Storms where there shouldn't be storms. Armies where there shouldn't be armies. People like us don't get to stay children forever."
Her words held a weight he didn't fully understand. But before he could ask, she smiled again, lighter this time. "Still. I'd forgotten how ugly your face is in this light."
Kaelen snorted. "Better than yours. You look like you've been living in a goat pen."
She shoved his shoulder. He shoved back. For a brief, fleeting moment, it was like they were children again, climbing ruins and laughing over nothing.
That night, they sat outside the watchtower ruins, a small fire crackling between them. The stars above Drastmere burned brighter than in the lowlands, countless and sharp. Erynn lay back on the stone, hands folded behind her head. Kaelen sat cross-legged, staring into the flames.
"Do you ever wonder," she said, "what it would be like to live somewhere else? Somewhere the storms don't find you?"
Kaelen thought of Ordon, of the years of training in silence, of the whispers that clung to him like a second skin. He thought of the scar, the blade, the way the storm had marked him.
"No," he said softly. "This is where I belong."
Erynn turned her head toward him. Her silver hair caught the firelight, glowing faint blue at the edges. She looked at him for a long time, as if she could see more than he wanted to show.
Kaelen felt the scar hum faintly again, but not from pain. From something else.
Far beyond the firelight, something stirred. A presence that was not wind or stone. Veyra watched unseen, her essence woven into the night air. The flicker of a moth wing, the soft rustle of pine needles, a guardian's quiet breath. She lingered close to Kaelen, unseen by both, a reminder that paths could split between light and shadow. He was moving closer to each.
Neither Kaelen nor Erynn noticed. They only sat there, two old friends beneath the stars, laughing softly as the fire popped, unaware of how much weight the night already carried.