The masked figure straightened slowly, his cloak rippling as though alive in the faint wind. Beneath the hood, twin eyes glowed faintly, sharp and unyielding. His voice, when it came, was calm and resonant, cutting through the tense air.
"I am Kael Varrow," he said, lowering his hood to reveal the obsidian mask etched with strange runes. "A blade honed for silence, sent to measure your worth. Do not mistake my purpose. This is not a hunt. This is judgment."
Eryndor tilted his head, lightning flickering across his knuckles. His smirk didn't waver. "Judgment?" he repeated. "You'll forgive me if I laugh at that. You hide behind a mask, and yet you think you can judge me?"
Kael stepped forward, movements eerily precise, as if every muscle was under perfect control. "You have power, boy. I can feel it brimming beneath your skin. But raw sparks die quickly in the storm. Show me if you are flame—or ash."
That was all the warning he gave.
Kael's cloak snapped as he lunged, faster than Eryndor expected. A sharp palm strike came first, aimed at his chest. Eryndor twisted, lightning sparking along his arm as he deflected, the clash sending a jolt through both of them.
Fast… Eryndor thought, sparks snapping between his fingertips. But he didn't back down. He surged forward with Pulse Step, his body gliding low, and his fist snapped out like a whip. Kael caught it on his forearm, the impact cracking the stone beneath his feet.
The alley became a blur of motion. Fist met fist, elbow clashed with elbow, knees and kicks crashing in a rhythm like a war drum. Eryndor wove lightning into each strike, sparks flaring with every blow, while Kael's movements were clean, almost mechanical, cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk.
Eryndor ducked under a sweeping strike, twisting with a Gale Feint. The wind tugged at his body, letting him shift directions unnaturally fast, and he reappeared at Kael's side. His palm pressed into Kael's ribs—Nerve Ignite. A surge of electricity shot in.
Kael hissed sharply, his muscles jerking, but instead of falling, he slammed his forehead into Eryndor's, sending him stumbling back. Sparks scattered into the air like fireflies.
Eryndor spat blood, then grinned wider. "Not bad," he said, lightning crawling up his arm like veins of fire. "But you'll need more than brute force to stop me."
Kael's stance shifted, slower now, deliberate. "Then prove it," he said, mask gleaming in the flicker of lightning.
The alley erupted once more—two storms colliding, one of steel discipline and the other of untamed electricity, their blows striking with the force of thunder.
And above it all, Lyanna watched from the shadows, her breath caught in her throat. For the first time, she realized that Eryndor wasn't just adapting—he was evolving mid-battle, as if the fight itself was teaching him how to become something far more dangerous.
The storm had only begun.