The storm was coming—not from the sky, but from within.
Kael stood at the heart of the ruined Temple of Thunderspire, his hands outstretched, fingers crackling with arcs of silver-blue lightning. Above him, the great statue of Aenora, Goddess of Tempests, loomed in judgment. Her eyes were hollow, her wings shattered by time, but her presence lingered in the air like the edge of a blade before a downpour.
Thunder growled in the distance—not natural, but summoned.
Behind Kael, Alaric leaned against a pillar, his expression unreadable. He'd been through trials, endured the Myth Crucible, but even he could sense the raw pressure in the air now. Lysera, her aether softly pulsing, stood nearby, her gaze shifting between Kael and the dark clouds swirling above the mountain.
Kael gritted his teeth. This was no mere test of strength—it was a trial of will, blood, and identity.
He took a deep breath and stepped forward onto the sanctified platform. The moment his foot touched the center, a jagged bolt of lightning surged down from the cracked ceiling, striking him squarely in the chest. The world exploded into blinding light.
He stood in the Storm Realm, the inner plane of the Thundercore—an endless sky where winds tore like blades and clouds rumbled like beasts. Before him floated a vision of his mother, Lady Aeris, her body composed of flowing wind and glimmering lightning.
"You are not yet worthy," she said, voice like a rolling gale.
Kael clenched his fists. "Then I'll make myself worthy."
The storm answered with violence.
From the clouds descended a monstrous being—Varkai, the Storm Eater, a manifestation of corrupted lightning. It bore his father's face twisted by thunderous fury, chained to the fury of the heavens. Its voice was a roar.
"You inherited our power—but what have you done with it?"
Kael moved on instinct, lightning coiling around his legs, launching him upward. His fist met the beast's, and the impact split the sky.
Outside, Alaric and Lysera watched as the storm grew worse, the temple groaning with each tremor. Blue bolts danced along the walls, shattering carvings and flaring aether across the mountainside. Voidbinders nearby, hidden in the foothills, watched as the skies darkened—not natural darkness, but divine fury.
Within the storm, Kael battled Varkai in a blur of raw might and elemental defiance. He was thrown through clouds, blasted by thunderwaves, but refused to fall. Each time he rose, lightning surged brighter around him.
He remembered his mother's words: The Thundercore is not a gift. It is a storm you must choose to embrace.
As Varkai loomed again, Kael did not strike. He opened his arms and let the lightning strike him.
Pain tore through his soul—but in that moment, the storm did not destroy him. It entered him.
Varkai roared, but began to unravel, becoming raw lightning. Kael's body glowed with searing light, his hair wild, his eyes twin arcs of electricity. The corrupted core at the center of Varkai shattered—and the power rushed into him.
Kael awoke in the ruins of the temple, kneeling. Steam hissed from his skin. His cloak was in tatters. Aether danced around him like a living storm.
"Kael?" Alaric approached cautiously.
Kael looked up, and when he smiled, it was with purpose. "I am storm-forged now."
The mountain was silent.
Until the distant sound of Voidbinder horns shattered the quiet.
From the north, their scouts approached, cloaked and riding beasts shaped by shadow and ice. Their leader—a young man with silver eyes and the brand of the Celestial Reaver—raised a black standard.
Lysera's eyes narrowed. "They've sent one of their generals."
Alaric's gaze hardened. "Then this time, we fight as a storm."
Kael stood tall, lightning surging along his arms, eyes fixed on the distant riders. The trial was over.
The war was only beginning.