Eryndor sank to the edge of the courtyard, wind still tugging at his coat, faint sparks of lightning tracing along his fingers. The revelation of Dorian's identity swirled in his mind, but beneath it lay something even deeper—a growing awareness, an unsettling question about himself, his family, and the techniques he had spent his life mastering.
He remembered moments from his childhood, small flashes of intuition and skill that had always set him apart:
The first time he had instinctively countered a strike from a much older sparring partner, moving in ways he didn't even know he could. Nights spent in the courtyard, practicing techniques he couldn't yet name, guided by an internal rhythm he hadn't understood. The subtle surge of wind or lightning he felt when emotions ran high, as if his body anticipated the storm before it struck.
None of that was ordinary, Eryndor thought. And now, with Dorian's presence and Kael's quiet acknowledgment of his abilities, the pieces began to align in his mind.
Kael had tested him. Dorian had acknowledged him. And Lyanna—she had spoken about him so many times. Somehow, everything seemed tied to a truth he hadn't yet grasped fully.
Eryndor's thoughts drifted to his father, sitting at the family estate just beyond the academy grounds. Calm, composed, and always observing. His father had never spoken of the family's past or hinted at any unusual bloodline—but now, in hindsight, Eryndor could see the signs:
The techniques his father used in private training sessions, sequences that seemed far beyond even academy standards. The rare insight his father had into strategy and combat, anticipating moves and countering before any opponent fully acted. The subtle mastery over elemental energies that he had glimpsed once or twice, fleeting and controlled.
Eryndor realized the truth dawning on him. My father already knows. He always knew.
And then there was his grandfather. Eryndor's earliest memories of him were of patient instruction, correcting every tiny flaw, emphasizing flow, rhythm, and intuition over raw strength. The man had never boasted, never displayed his full power, yet the techniques he taught felt like fragments of a language only a few could ever read.
They weren't ordinary either, Eryndor thought, heart tightening. Somehow, against all odds, they had lived in this world—Earth, a place where the ordinary would never understand the extraordinary. Yet they had survived. They had hidden, observed, and trained the next generation—him.
His mind swirled with questions, with possibilities. Did Lyanna know? Had Kael known all along? And what part of his own potential had already been inherited from bloodlines he barely understood?
Eryndor flexed his hands, feeling the faint hum of Ember Tier lightning, the wind brushing against him in subtle encouragement. The techniques he had learned, the instincts that had kept him alive in the top ten battles, the sequences remembered from the martial trance—all of it suddenly seemed part of a legacy far older than he had imagined.
I'm not just learning these techniques, he realized. I'm remembering what's already in me. What they left for me. What they survived to give me.
The weight of that realization settled on him. His father's calm, Dorian's presence, Kael's quiet observation—they were all pieces of a puzzle that he hadn't yet fully assembled. But for the first time, Eryndor understood one thing clearly: his potential, his Ember Tier abilities, and the Eightfold Flow weren't just talent—they were inheritance. And the storm inside him was only beginning to awaken.
The courtyard grew silent around him. The top ten trials had ended, but for Eryndor, the real journey—understanding his family, mastering his gifts, and confronting the truths of the Veynhart line—was only beginning.