The wind shrieked through the mountain pass, cutting like blades between crags as Velharan scouts crested the ridge—twelve riders, armored in silver-blue with crimson banners tucked behind their cloaks. Their movements were precise. Too clean for mercenaries. Trained soldiers.
"Fan out," Kael said, already stepping forward to the edge of the bridge that spanned the molten channel.
Doran peeked from behind a pillar. "I count twelve. Possibly more behind them. On a scale of one to 'we're doomed,' where do we stand?"
Kael spun the staff once, its obsidian ring humming with arcane tension. "Depends. Do you feel like dying today?"
"Depends," Doran replied. "Do you feel like dying heroically or with a scream?"
Arinya slid beside Kael, her cloak fluttering in the rising heat. "That's the Velharan crest. My house. But those scouts… they're from his guard."
Kael's grip tightened. "The suitor?"
She nodded. "Lord Sareth. I was promised to him before I left."
"Wonderful," Doran muttered. "Royal drama and death. A fine afternoon."
Kael raised the staff, tapping its base against the stone. A subtle shockwave pulsed through the floor—controlled, elegant. The relic inside him stirred like a coiled flame waking from slumber.
"I'll hold the bridge," Kael said. "You two fall back to the inner chamber."
Arinya looked like she was about to argue, but then she saw the way he stood: firm, composed, the wind curling around him as though obeying his presence. The heat from the molten streams reflected against his pale features, chiseled jaw tight with focus. Though blind, Kael's sight extended through the magic now—his awareness wide like sonar, painting the world in living sound and vibration.
He was more than just a swordsman now. He was bound.
"Try not to die, then," she said softly.
"I don't plan to."
He stepped forward.
The scouts halted at the entrance of the bridge. One among them dismounted—a tall figure, gold trim on his armor and a polished blade at his side. His face was sharp and princely. His eyes locked on Arinya in the distance.
"Surrender her," he called out. "And I'll allow the rest of you to crawl away."
Kael didn't answer.
Instead, he tapped the staff again.
And then moved.
With a burst of force, Kael shot forward like a wraith. The first scout raised his shield too late—Kael's staff struck its edge, splintering it, then spun into the man's gut with a thud that knocked the wind from him. Kael pivoted, bringing the staff up in a clean arc that cracked against another's helmet.
Two down in seconds.
The others surged in.
Doran hurled a flash vial from the side corridor. "Boom!" he shouted just before it exploded in a blast of light and smoke.
Kael rolled beneath a swinging blade, brought his staff low, and swept a soldier's legs from under him. With a snap, he jabbed the tip against the man's chest, knocking him unconscious.
"Where the hell did he learn to fight like this?" Doran whispered from the shadows.
Arinya answered without looking away. "He didn't. He remembers."
As Kael fought, images flickered behind his eyes—battles not his own, voices from centuries past whispering technique. His body moved like instinct, like echo. He wasn't just fighting.
He was reliving.
Lord Sareth stepped forward finally, drawing his gleaming rapier.
"You fight well for a thief," he called. "But you're in the way."
Kael turned slowly, breath steady, staff glowing faintly in his grip.
"And you talk too much for a man about to lose."
They clashed—rapier against staff. Sparks lit the air. Sareth was fast, trained in the noble style, using footwork and precision strikes.
Kael, in contrast, fought like wind through trees—fluid, adaptable, rooted in rhythm rather than formality.
Blades sang. Feet skidded over stone.
Then—Kael hooked the staff under Sareth's guard, spun, and swept his legs from under him in one clean motion. The noble landed hard, weapon clattering from his grasp.
Kael pointed the staff at his throat.
"Call off your scouts," he said, calm but cold.
Sareth seethed. "She's mine. By law."
"She chooses who she is," Kael replied.
Behind them, Arinya's voice rang clear. "And I choose not you."
That was it.
Sareth snarled, pushed himself up, and gestured sharply to retreat. The scouts backed away, dragging their wounded with them. The clash was over.
Kael exhaled, turning away.
Arinya met him on the bridge, her expression unreadable.
"You're reckless," she said.
"You're welcome," he replied.
Doran emerged, brushing ash from his sleeves. "Well, that was terrifying. And weirdly hot."
Kael raised an eyebrow.
"Not you, I mean the battle. Just... moving on."
They returned to the Forge Temple's heart, now secured for the moment. Kael leaned the staff against the altar, sitting with a groan.
Arinya sat beside him, her arm brushing his.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Kael tilted his head. "For what?"
"For not treating me like a prize to be won."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You're not a prize. You're a storm."
She blinked at him.
"A good kind," he added quickly.
Doran gagged. "Ugh. Get a tent."
Kael chuckled.
But deep down, something stirred. Not just the bond to the relic, or the memory of the battle. Something else. Something growing quietly every time he heard her voice.
And he wondered, just for a moment, if this journey was about more than revenge. More than the past.
Maybe, just maybe…
…it was about what he could become next.