Kaelen had imagined a lot of things during his years scraping by in the alleys of Velmire—the taste of royal feasts, the feel of silk instead of burlap, even the weight of a blade in his hand if he ever joined a mercenary band. But never this. Never standing beneath the vast crystal ceiling of the palace throne room, thunder still humming in his blood, while his siblings stared at him like a stray dog let in from the rain.
The High Court was gathered, cloaked in silence and gold. Rows of nobles sat along the marble floor, their jeweled hands folded, faces tight with barely veiled curiosity. Word had spread quickly—Velmire's lost prince had returned, trailing smoke and lightning.
At the far end of the room, the throne stood upon a dais of obsidian carved with ancient runes. On it sat King Vaelen, his presence as commanding as ever. Silver streaked his once-dark hair, and the sapphire crest of House Cindral burned bright against his chest. He was older, wearier—but his gaze was still sharp enough to slice steel.
Kaelen met his father's eyes, pulse thrumming like a war drum. He expected anger. Instead, he saw calculation.
"So," the king said, voice low but steady, "the storm returns to the crown."
The court murmured. The queen, cold and regal beside the throne, narrowed her eyes. Kaelen shifted his weight, resisting the urge to bolt.
"I didn't know I had anything to return to," Kaelen said evenly. "You didn't come looking."
The silence that followed could have broken glass.
It was Seris who stepped forward first. She moved like fire incarnate—graceful, sharp, blazing with restrained fury. Her crimson robes shimmered as if stitched from flame, and the heat around her spiked subtly as she approached.
"You burned down a district in the lower ring," she said, voice clipped. "People died."
"I didn't mean—"
"Intent doesn't matter when lightning tears through stone and skin," she snapped. "You lost control. That makes you dangerous."
"I am dangerous," Kaelen admitted. "You just don't know to whom."
That earned a flicker of amusement from the second prince, Aedric, who stood leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed. Pale and elegant, dressed in glacial blues and silvers, he radiated cold. Literally. Frost clung to the hem of his cloak, and his breath fogged the air.
"Bold," Aedric mused. "And stupid."
Then came Zevien, wind prince and the youngest of the three before Kaelen's return. He wore a tunic of soft greens and silvers, and his hair swept in wind-styled waves, like he'd just walked through a gale and made it fashion.
"I think it's exciting," Zevien said brightly. "Another brother! And one with thunder? That's new."
Seris shot him a glare. "This isn't a game."
"No," said Aedric, cold eyes back on Kaelen. "It's succession."
Kaelen frowned. "Succession?"
"You're a prince," Aedric said flatly. "By blood. That places you in line for the throne—if you survive the court long enough."
Kaelen's heart sank. He hadn't wanted this. He'd only wanted answers. A name. A place to belong.
But now the game had changed.
"Enough," the king commanded, and the court stilled. "Kaelen will stay. He will be tested, trained, and watched. Should he prove worthy, he will be welcomed. If not…"
His voice dropped. "The gods are not kind to liars, nor is this court."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "I'm not here to take anything. I want the truth."
"You'll earn it," the queen said coldly.
—
Later that evening, Kaelen stood alone in a chamber that smelled like dust and forgotten royalty. His "room" was a luxurious prison—four-poster bed, marble floors, velvet drapes—and yet it felt more foreign than any alley he'd ever slept in.
There was a knock.
He turned. Zevien entered without waiting for a response.
"Nice place," he said cheerfully. "Better than the stables they threw me in when I first awakened."
Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "They threw you in the stables?"
"Well, not exactly. I just liked sleeping there."
A pause.
"I'm sorry about Seris," Zevien said. "She's all fire and rules. And Aedric? He could freeze the sun."
Kaelen chuckled, just barely.
"You're not what I expected," he admitted.
"Good," Zevien said, flopping onto the bed like he owned it. "Because this palace needs unexpected."
—
Outside, the capital of Velmire buzzed with rumors. A boy of thunder had returned, lightning in his bones, and nobles whispered of bloodlines and buried secrets. But outside the city walls, further still past the Blackreach Mountains, a darker wind stirred.
In the kingdom of Cierath, cloaked in shadow and flame, a raven landed on the shoulder of a woman cloaked in darkness. Her smile was carved from cruelty.
"The storm child is back," she whispered to the bird. "Good. Now we'll see if the prophecy holds."
She turned to a map marked with red ink, Velmire circled in ash.
"Let the game begin."
—