By the time Eryndor stumbled back through the crooked streets, the sparks had faded from his hands. His body ached, ribs bruised, lip split, but the storm inside him still hummed. Every step felt heavier, yet he couldn't wipe the grin off his face.
He'd fought—really fought—for the first time. And he had survived.
When he finally pushed open the door of the small inn he was staying in, the silence hit him. He dropped onto the bed without even unlacing his boots, staring at the ceiling. His mind replayed the duel in fragments—Kael's precision, the weight of each strike, the way his own lightning and wind had responded almost as if they'd been waiting all this time to awaken.
But Kael's words lingered the most.
Spark Tier.
The lowest rung on the ladder.
He closed his eyes and let the thought sink in.
This world measured its people by their affinities, ranking them by how much of their element they could command. Kael had made it clear, but Eryndor pieced together what he now understood:
Spark Tier — The beginning. The flicker of an element, raw and unstable. Techniques barely last, and control is fragile. Ember Tier — Power steadies, flames burn longer, lightning strikes harder, wind carries form. This is where magic becomes reliable. Inferno Tier — The element becomes a weapon. Users at this level carve their names into battlefields, their abilities no longer tricks but forces of destruction. Tempest Tier — The element bends, shaped beyond instinct into artistry. Walls of fire, blades of wind, rivers of lightning. Kael's level. Aether Tier — Almost myth. At this height, the element fuses with the soul itself, transcending limits. Few ever touch it, fewer still survive long enough to wield it.
Kael had been right—by comparison, Eryndor was nothing more than a spark trying to challenge a storm. But sparks could grow. Sparks could set the world on fire.
He exhaled, feeling the ache of his muscles, and another memory surfaced—one far older, one that smelled of sweat, dust, and his grandfather's relentless voice.
"You think strength is power? Wrong. Strength fades. Power is rhythm, control, the ability to flow. Learn the Eightfold Flow, Eryndor, and no one can bind you."
The Eightfold Flow—the martial style his grandfather drilled into him since childhood. He remembered the stances: steady as stone, light as water, sharp as air. Each "fold" was a transition—defense into attack, attack into evasion, evasion into counters. A complete cycle, always moving, always alive.
In practice, it had been grueling, endless repetition until his body obeyed without thought. Strikes in the courtyard until his knuckles split. Balance drills on wooden poles until his legs shook. Spars until he collapsed in the dirt, and even then, his grandfather only nodded if his form never broke.
Back then, it had felt like torture. Tonight, in the alley with Kael, it had saved him.
He realized now what his grandfather meant. Training is rhythm. Combat is chaos. And true mastery is carrying rhythm into chaos.
Eryndor let the thought sit, the grin creeping back despite the pain. Kael had seen a boy in the Spark Tier. What he hadn't seen was the boy who had survived years under his grandfather's iron hand.
And now, with lightning and wind coursing through him, the Eightfold Flow was no longer just a martial art. It was evolving, reshaping itself into something greater.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion finally dragging him down. The storm inside hummed quieter, but never silent.
This was only the first step. Tomorrow, the climb began.