Morning came slow, dragging sunlight across the small inn room. Eryndor's eyes opened to the sting of sore muscles, bruises blooming across his ribs, and a dull ache in his knuckles. Every breath reminded him of Kael's knee. Every shift of his body reminded him of how close he had come to breaking.
And yet… he smiled.
Because beneath the pain, there was something sharper—growth. He could feel it, faint but undeniable. His control over the sparks was steadier now, the hum of wind at his heels more natural. He had taken a step, small but real.
After days of rest, he finally set out again, this time not for the city's alleys or Kael's shadow, but for home.
The estate stood as he remembered it—stone walls, the wide courtyard, the banners of his lineage fluttering faintly in the breeze. Servants glanced up at him in surprise as he strode past, and whispers followed him. It had been too long since he'd walked these halls.
Inside, the great hall was alive with noise. His father, stern as ever, sat at the head, his voice carrying authority. His brothers and cousins filled the space, their postures rigid, their gazes sharp.
Eryndor entered quietly, but the moment his father's eyes found him, the room stilled.
"So," his father said, voice like gravel, "you finally return."
Eryndor bowed faintly, masking his smirk. "I thought it was time."
His father studied him, gaze weighing, before speaking again. "The academy has sent word. Our family will be allowed to send one candidate this year. One chance to raise our name higher. But only one."
Murmurs broke out among the gathered kin. The academy was no ordinary school—it was the gateway to power, recognition, alliances. To be chosen meant prestige. To fail meant being forgotten.
His father's hand slammed the armrest, silencing the whispers. "There will be no favoritism. No politics. We will settle this with strength. A competition. Each of you will prove yourselves, and I will decide who bears our name into the academy."
Eryndor's smirk widened. A competition. Perfect.
His cousins exchanged sharp looks, their confidence obvious. To them, Eryndor was the pale son who had been absent too long, the one whispered about as weak. They didn't know about the storm brewing inside him.
His father's eyes lingered on him longer than the rest, and for a flicker of a moment, there was something else in them—suspicion, maybe even recognition. As if he could sense that Eryndor was not the same boy who had left.
Eryndor met his gaze without flinching. "When does it begin?" he asked.
His father's lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "Tomorrow."
The hall erupted with anticipation, but Eryndor only felt the storm rising in his veins again. Lightning crackled faintly beneath his skin, wind tugged at the edges of his breath.
Tomorrow, he would show them.
Tomorrow, the family would see the prodigal son not as a weakling… but as a storm.