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> "Huh… wh-what happened?"
Caelan's voice came out rough, dazed, as his eyes fluttered open. His vision was blurred at first—blinding light and swirling dust—and for a moment, he wondered if he had crossed into the afterlife.
But then a warm sensation washed over him. Soothing. Healing.
A gentle glow of white light pulsed around him, mending his torn skin and torn muscles. As clarity returned, so did the sight of a woman with golden hair and soft blue eyes, her hands glowing with radiant magic.
"…Life magic?" he muttered.
It hit him then—like a thunderbolt in the brain.
> "Wait… blonde hair… blue eyes… that glow—oh stars—"
He nearly shot upright in panic before wincing as a lance of pain shot through his side.
Still, he pushed himself up and managed to dip into a respectful bow, his voice now steadier. "Queen Miranda Avalon. Forgive me—I didn't realize—"
"Calm yourself, young one," Queen Miranda said gently, her voice like morning wind drifting through spring leaves. "You've been through enough already. Rest."
Her hands continued to glow as the healing magic seeped deeper into his muscles. The pain dulled, and strength slowly returned.
> "The Queen of Avalon," Caelan thought in awe, "the strongest light mage in the kingdom… and the mother of Lysander."
As if on cue, the growing commotion around the healing area drew the attention of the heirs and clan heads. Footsteps approached.
Seryn appeared first, her silver hair slightly tousled. She folded her arms, wearing a crooked smile. "Still alive, huh?"
"Barely," Caelan said, flashing a weak grin.
"You were insane back there." She gave a small nod of respect. "But it worked. You won."
Caelan blinked. "Wait… so that actually happened? I didn't just dream about beating Silas Cromwell?"
"No dream," came Silas's voice.
Caelan turned to see the dark-haired heir standing beside the group, black eyes calm and unreadable as ever. There was an awkward pause as the two stared at each other.
The air thickened with tension.
Then Silas stepped forward and extended his hand. "Thank you."
Caelan blinked. "…Huh?"
"You've given me a reason to grow stronger," Silas said quietly. "That's rare. I haven't had someone push me like that in years. From now on, I'll train like my life depends on it… because the next time we fight, I want to win."
Caelan stared at the offered hand for a moment, then smiled faintly and took it.
"You're not so bad yourself," he said. "Kinda creepy quiet. But not bad."
Silas cracked the faintest smile. "I'll take that as a compliment."
From the edge of the platform, Theron Virelith stepped forward, his voice deep and commanding.
"With the final battle concluded, and the feast drawing to its end… It is now time," he declared, "to honor the one who returned from the brink of death—and bested his fellow heirs."
Caelan's eyebrows raised. "Wait, there's more?"
Theron beckoned. "Come."
Though still sore, Caelan stood and climbed onto the center platform, the arena now cleared, and all eyes once again locked on him.
A servant approached, holding a velvet tray with two items. The first—an ornate ring pulsing with deep, dark mana. The second—two short swords, identical in build, gleaming under the moonlight.
Gasps rippled through the crowd at the sight of the weapons.
Theron gestured toward the items. "These are your rewards, Caelan Virelith."
He began with the ring.
"This is the Voidbrand Ring. Forged by the Arc Mages of the capital, it is embedded with high-grade spatial magic. With this, you can summon or store your weapons at will. No more slinging them over your back like a traveling peddler."
Caelan exhaled with relief. "About time…"
A few chuckles echoed through the watching heirs.
Theron then turned to the twin swords and picked one up, raising it to reflect the firelight.
"These," he said with unmistakable pride, "are weapons worthy of a Virelith."
The short sword gleamed. The black blade drank in light like obsidian forged in moonlight, while the golden crossguard curled like flowing flame. Its handle, tightly bound in black leather, ended in a golden pommel shaped like a sharpened fang.
"They were forged from the fangs of a Thunderflame Wyvern," Theron explained, voice carrying across the arena. "A beast of both fire and lightning—savage, rare, and deadly. Its fangs hold pure elemental resonance."
The crowd leaned in as he continued. "They are light, yet harder than dwarven steel. And more importantly… they resonate with both flame and lightning mana. In your hands, they will become more than blades—they will become extensions of your will."
Caelan stepped forward, picked up both swords, and immediately felt it—a strange thrum, like distant thunder echoing from the hilt. The swords pulsed faintly with warmth… almost as if alive.
> "Thunderflame Wyvern… flame and lightning…"
> "They're perfect."
He stared at them, eyes narrowing with focus, then gave a small grin.
"I'll call them… Stormfangs."
The name echoed in the arena like a promise. The swords responded with a satisfying hum of resonance.
He turned to Theron and bowed. "I will wield them with honor."
Theron nodded. "Treat them well, and they will grow with you."
With a small breath, Caelan slipped the twin swords into his Voidbrand Ring. A flicker of dark light shimmered as the blades vanished into spatial storage—efficient, elegant, and fitting.
He flexed his now-unburdened shoulders and gave a satisfied sigh.
> "No more traveling like a walking weapons rack."
Behind him, Queen Miranda gave a soft smile. "You've grown into something… fascinating, Caelan Virelith."
He looked up at her, unsure how to respond.
She nodded once. "I look forward to seeing where your path leads."
And so, with the feast coming to a close, and the stars now shimmering above the arena…
Caelan stood, the Voidbrand Ring pulsing gently on his finger, and the name Stormfangs etched in the back of his mind like fire and thunder.
Tonight, he was not just a survivor.
He was the future.
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