The gutters of Deyar's southern slums reeked of ash, old wine, and sweat. It was a place where names were forgotten and survival meant stealing before the next thief did. Kaelen was good at that—better than most. Fast hands, quiet feet, and no past to slow him down.
At least, that's what he told himself.
He crouched beneath a tattered canvas awning, watching the apothecary shop across the alley. Its owner, a shriveled man with one good eye and an obsession with locking things, had just closed up for the night. Kaelen's pulse quickened. The man kept dried mistroot and sun-crystals in there—ingredients that sold well in backdoor auctions.
Kaelen took a breath. The smell of summer thunder sat heavy on his tongue. Familiar. Dangerous.
He shook it off and slipped into motion. One lock, then another. His fingers moved like dancers, effortless, practiced. The door opened with a soft click.
He stepped inside.
Darkness greeted him, but Kaelen didn't need light. He navigated by memory, by scent, by instinct. The pouch at his side was already half full when the flare started in his chest—sharp, hot, and electric.
"No," he whispered. "Not now."
It had been months since the last time. He thought he had it under control.
Crack.
The jar in his hand burst as blue-white light flickered across his skin. His eyes glowed faintly, crackling veins of energy snaking up his arms. The air smelled of ozone. His heartbeat pounded like war drums.
He dropped the pouch. Bolted.
But it was too late.
A bolt of lightning surged from his palm and split across the counter. Shelves caught fire in an instant. Bottles exploded. Kaelen stumbled out into the alley just as the apothecary erupted behind him, flames clawing at the sky.
People screamed. Bells rang. Guards were already storming the lower streets.
Kaelen ran.
Inside the Palace Walls
King Alaric stared at the scout with narrowed eyes. The fire had been reported within hours. Witnesses swore the culprit fled surrounded by "stormlight." Unnatural lightning.
"Where exactly?" the king asked.
"The old quarter, Your Majesty. Slum edge. They say the thief disappeared into the dust."
Alaric exhaled. "Find him. Quietly. Bring him to me alive."
The scout bowed and left. Silence returned.
"Thunder," the king muttered, his voice almost reverent. "After all these years…"
Back in the Streets
Kaelen didn't sleep. He huddled beneath broken beams in a burnt-out temple, electricity still humming faintly in his bones. He didn't understand what was happening. Ever since he turned thirteen, strange things had happened when he got scared—or angry. But never like this.
He pulled out the coin he wore on a string around his neck. Not real currency—too old and worn. It bore a sigil he never recognized but had always kept.
It looked a lot like the royal crest.
Three Days Later
He was caught.
Not by a guard, but by a knight. Black armor, crimson cloak, the royal sigil shining on his chestplate. Kaelen barely had time to blink before the man dropped into the alley and struck him with the flat of a blade.
When Kaelen woke up, it was not in chains—but on velvet.
He blinked at the ceiling above him. Gilded. Arched. Familiar?
Memories clawed at the edge of his mind. A garden. A woman with a kind smile. A fire. A scream.
The doors opened, and four people entered.
Seris walked first—tall, proud, flame in her eyes. The Princess of Fire. She looked at him like he was filth on her boots.
Next came Aedric, with silver-blue robes and colder eyes. His presence chilled the room as if it responded to his mood. Beside him stood Zevien, younger but wiry, his pale-blond hair catching the light like feathers. Wind Prince, mischievous and sharp.
Last was the king.
Alaric's gaze pinned Kaelen in place.
"You've come home, Kaelen," he said. "Though I doubt you remember it."
Kaelen's throat tightened. "You have the wrong person."
"No," Seris cut in sharply. "We don't."
Alaric raised a hand. "Leave us."
The siblings hesitated—Seris especially—but obeyed.
Alaric sat down. "You are Kaelen Rhaegir, my fourth-born. You vanished during the border raids thirteen years ago. Your mother died protecting you."
Kaelen couldn't breathe. "That's not—"
"You've always felt it, haven't you?" Alaric's eyes gleamed. "The storm within. That power is not common. It is thunder—the lost affinity."
Kaelen shook his head. "I'm not your son. I'm a thief."
"You were both."
The king stood. "Whether you like it or not, Kaelen… your blood is royal. And you've just revealed yourself to the entire kingdom. Now you must face what that means."
Later That Night
Seris paced her chamber, fire flickering behind her eyes.
"He's no brother of mine," she snarled. "He's a stray."
Aedric stood by the window, watching ice form on the glass. "But he is a threat. Thunder hasn't been seen in centuries."
Zevien leaned back on a cushion. "He doesn't look like much. Wild dog, maybe. But lightning bites."
Aedric turned. "We'll need to watch him."
Seris nodded. "Or remove him."
In the Shadows of the Palace
Kaelen stared out over the gardens from the tower they locked him in. A servant had brought food. Clothes. A coat with the royal crest.
He didn't know what to think.
Family? Powers? Nobility?
He clenched the coat in his fists, sparks dancing between his fingers.
He didn't ask for this. But the storm had found him anyway.
And deep in his gut, he knew: this was only the beginning.