Night fell heavy upon the kingdom of Velmire. In the palace halls, torches flickered against stone walls, their flames bowing like frightened courtiers to the weight of unease. Word of the Cierath attack had spread fast—whispers in the kitchens, fear in the eyes of guards, silence in the queen's court.
But in Kaelen's chambers, silence was rare.
He stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, palms stretched outward, thunder crackling faintly between his fingertips. The training circle carved by Magister Hareth glowed beneath him, but the magic felt unstable tonight—wild, flickering like a storm that couldn't decide whether to strike or retreat.
"Breathe," came a voice from the doorway.
Kaelen turned to see Aedric leaning against the frame, cloaked in icy blue robes, arms folded.
"Why are you here?" Kaelen asked, dropping the lightning.
"To see if the stories are true," Aedric replied coolly. "That the lost prince has returned wielding thunder as if he were born for war."
Kaelen narrowed his eyes. "You don't believe I belong."
"No," Aedric said. "But I believe you are dangerous."
He stepped inside, each footfall calm and calculated.
"Thunder and ice are not friends, Kaelen. In nature or in blood." He held out his hand, and mist rose from his palm, shaping into a delicate flake of frost. "I've trained since I was five. I mastered water when other boys were mastering swords. I was supposed to be the king's successor. And now…"
He let the flake shatter. "You arrive. The storm child. The king's lost favorite."
Kaelen said nothing for a long moment. "I didn't ask for this."
"Power rarely asks permission," Aedric replied coldly. Then, with a glance at the thunder marks etched in the stone, he added, "Just make sure your storm doesn't swallow Velmire whole."
And with that, he left.
The next morning brought another summons—but not from Hareth, or even the king.
This time it came from the queen herself.
Kaelen had never spoken to her directly. Queen Iselyn was as mysterious as she was regal—a sharp-edged woman with silver-gold hair and eyes like moonlight on steel. She ruled the court while the king commanded the armies.
He was escorted into her private garden—an enclosed courtyard filled with rare moonlotus and glowing nightbloom vines. The air smelled of frost and incense.
She stood by a marble fountain, feeding pale fish with flicks of her fingers.
"You are not what I expected," she said without turning.
Kaelen bowed stiffly. "I imagine I'm a disappointment."
Her lips twitched. "Disruption, perhaps. But not disappointment."
Now she turned to him, her gaze unreadable.
"My son was taken from me as a babe. A carriage raid, blamed on rebels. Yet I always felt a pull in the storm when lightning struck too close. The gods don't give thunder to orphans."
Kaelen swallowed. "So you believe I'm him?"
"I believe you are useful," she replied. "Which, in court, is more important."
A pause.
"You've made enemies already," she said softly. "Seris will test you with fire. Aedric with ice. Zevien? He's a tempest behind a smile. And beyond these walls… the true game begins."
She dropped another pinch of food into the pond.
"There are nobles who would slit your throat for the inheritance you threaten. Generals who remember the war your bloodline started. And spies. Always spies."
Kaelen frowned. "You're warning me?"
"I'm giving you a chance to survive," she said.
A beat.
Then: "There's a masked ball tonight. Appear. Listen. Dance if you must. And watch. Trust no one."
She turned away.
"Especially not me."
The palace ballroom transformed by dusk.
Chandeliers of enchanted crystal spun in midair, casting shifting patterns on the marble. Musicians played haunting waltzes laced with magic. Nobles floated across the floor in masks of gold, silver, obsidian, their laughter like breaking glass.
Kaelen stood near a pillar, dressed in midnight-black finery tailored hastily for his royal reintroduction. He wore no mask—there was no point in hiding what everyone already whispered about.
"Someone's brooding," came a familiar voice.
Zevien appeared beside him, wine in hand, mask pushed lazily atop his head.
"You actually showed up," Kaelen muttered.
"Wouldn't miss the drama," Zevien replied. "Mother's favorite generals are here. The high priestess. Even Prince Damar of Sylvaen."
Kaelen scanned the crowd. "Which one's Damar?"
"The one with too many rings and too little charm," Zevien said.
Kaelen found him: a tall man with green-gold robes and a jade circlet. His eyes met Kaelen's briefly, and a faint smirk touched his lips.
"Be careful of him," Zevien said. "He's ambitious. And bored."
A bell chimed.
A servant approached Kaelen with a silver tray.
"A gift, Your Highness," she said, offering a scroll sealed with black wax.
Kaelen's stomach dropped.
He broke the seal and unrolled it.
We see the storm.
But does the storm see us?
– Cierath
The blood drained from his face.
"Problem?" Zevien asked.
Kaelen showed him the scroll.
Zevien's eyes darkened. "Someone smuggled a Cierathi threat into a royal ball?"
A scream tore across the ballroom.
People turned.
A noblewoman collapsed, blood blooming across her gown. Her mask fell aside—eyes wide, unmoving.
Guards rushed in. The music died.
Panic set in like fire to oil.
Kaelen grabbed Zevien. "We need to move. Now."
Hours later, the palace was locked down. No one in or out.
The queen's wrath shattered glass.
"She was one of my courtiers," she snapped. "Lady Mavra. A supporter of the border campaign."
"Poisoned," Magister Hareth confirmed, examining the glass she drank from. "Alchemical. Subtle. Cierath signature."
Kaelen clenched his fists. "They knew I'd be here. This was a message."
The king nodded grimly. "And we must send one in return."
He looked to Kaelen.
"You were born in thunder. Now it's time to strike like it."