The ship was long gone.
Riko lingered at the cliff's edge, the ocean wind pressing against his cloak like the memory of movement. His gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon, where the sails of Zehn's ship had vanished into the soft mist of morning. Only the echo of waves below filled the silence now. The sea had grown still in their absence, but within Riko, a storm brewed—quiet, potent, and inevitable.
He felt it with every breath.
A hunger not for conquest, but for preparation.
A part of him longed to be on that ship, to feel the wood groan beneath his boots as new shores rose from the mist, to see Zehn's gust blades flash through resistance, to stake his banners into foreign earth. But not yet. This moment—this lull between the echoes of conquest—was not weakness. It was discipline. A king who sought to rule the world could not abandon the core he was building. Not until his hands were worthy to shape destiny itself.
Stormhaven was his cradle, his forge.
He had three elements at his command—fire, earth, and air—each claimed not by birth, but by loyalty, earned through bonds deeper than any sigil or scroll. They stirred within him like ancient spirits bound by purpose. Fire coiled in his chest, fierce and proud, whispering in Araka's voice. Air drifted beneath his thoughts, restless and wild, carried in Zehn's laughter. Earth sat like a heartbeat behind his spine, slow and deep, in rhythm with Garrok's quiet strength.
But power was not enough. To wield it, he had to become more than a bearer.
He had to become the storm.
That night, beneath the watchful light of Stormhaven's twin moons—one pale and full, the other a waning crimson curve—Riko descended to the hollow terrace where the stone met sky. Wind howled in solemn hymns. Stars shimmered overhead like ancient eyes. He drew his blade of wind and began to carve.
Not symbols he'd memorized. Not diagrams from old scrolls.
These were runes from memory, half-shaped glyphs clawing from instinct and hunger. A language not of civilization, but of sovereign will. The first lines were shaky, errant strokes etched in defiance of logic—but slowly, the grooves found harmony. They began to glow—dim, deliberate. The circle sealed itself. The ground pulsed. Something was listening.
He stepped into its center. The wind held its breath.
Fire came first.
It flared from his palm without effort, curling around his fingers like a curious serpent. Golden at first, then deeper—crimson and hot, but not wild. Not the chaos of an uncontrolled blaze. This was Araka's flame, pulsing with loyalty, memory, and respect. It recognized him. Not as its wielder, but as its equal.
Then came air.
It pressed against his back, lifting strands of his hair, tugging at his sleeves. Playful. Precise. Zehn's influence lingered like the rhythm of a duel mid-dance—unpredictable, alive. It didn't push him—it guided him. Not as a servant, but as a sibling.
And then, earth.
He dropped to one knee and pressed his hand to the stone. Nothing came.
Not at first.
But he waited—not in impatience, but in silence.
And then, like a breath beneath the surface, the stone shifted. Just enough to acknowledge. A subtle quake, a patient rumble. Not an explosion. A conversation.
I am with you, Warden's Heir.
He smiled—not in victory, but in understanding.
The elements did not serve him.
They recognized him.
He trained through the dark, moving like a blade forged in his own will. Sweat poured. Muscles burned. His breath grew ragged as he shifted from fire to stone to air, bending not just energy but intention. He leapt, ducked, surged forward, grounded himself, flung arcs of flame into the night sky, redirected them with gusts, then used stone to trap the energy mid-flight.
He was not perfect.
But each hour carved the flaw away.
By dawn, the horizon glowed gold. The sea shimmered again, and the wind cooled his fevered skin. His body was aching, his breath sharp—but there was clarity in the exhaustion.
He no longer felt like a man running from his past.
He felt like a king reaching for his throne.
When he returned to the fortress Garrok had crafted—a monument of black stone and sharp angles that rose from the cliffs like a fang—he walked with purpose. The main hall, lined with unfinished banners and flickering torches, opened to a vast balcony where the sea met sky. It was there that Araka waited.
She stood near the ledge, her crimson hair dancing in the breeze, golden firelight wreathing her in halos. The flickering light reflected in her eyes, catching something between pride and worry.
"You push yourself too hard," she murmured without turning.
"I push," Riko said, stepping past her, "because I must. No one else can carry this burden."
"You don't have to carry it alone," she replied gently.
"I know," he said. But he kept walking.
From the shadows of the great hall, Niris emerged in silence. Her robes rippled like still water stirred by distant thunder. Her eyes, ever calm, held their usual glacial stillness.
"The earthbender has gone," she said. "He left before sunrise to extend the defenses and reinforce the southern cliffs. He said he will return when the land obeys him again."
Riko nodded. "Garrok never stops building."
Niris tilted her head. "And we stay?"
"You stay," he replied, turning to face both of them, his voice firm. "Because you chose to. And I do not forget loyalty."
Araka's smile curved, faint and firelit. "My flame doesn't stray far from its source."
Niris didn't speak—but her silence echoed like a vow carved into ancient ice.
They would remain.
Not out of obligation. Not from fear.
But because they believed in him.
And he would never let that belief go to waste.
As the sun climbed above Stormhaven, casting gold across the towers, banners, and stone, Riko stood tall. He was tired. Worn. But something else burned in him now—clearer than fire, heavier than stone, sharper than any blade.
Purpose.
And soon, the world would feel it.
Not just in his banners.
But in his fury.
Stormhaven would not simply endure.
It would conquer.