The hut smelled of mildew and old blood.
Ryn staggered through the doorway, his vision swimming. The wound on his thigh burned with each step, his makeshift bandage already soaked through. He collapsed against the wall, gasping, his fingers leaving smears of red on the weathered wood.
*Lira.*
The memory of her falling played behind his eyelids every time he blinked. That last look she'd given him—not fear, not regret, but grim satisfaction. As if she'd known exactly what she was doing.
A rustle came from the corner.
Ryn's dagger was in his hand before his mind caught up, the shadow-forged blade humming faintly in the dim light.
"Easy, boy."
The voice sent ice down Ryn's spine. Familiar, but wrong—like hearing a song played out of tune.
A match flared, illuminating a face he hadn't seen in years.
**[Garron the Stormcaller | Wind Astra Master]**
*Former mentor to House Kael*
*Presumed dead in the Border Wars*
*Currently: Very much alive*
The years hadn't been kind. Where Garron had once stood tall and broad, now his shoulders hunched like a vulture's. A brutal scar bisected his face, leaving one eye milky white. But his hands—those remained steady as he lit an oil lamp, revealing the hut's interior.
Dried herbs hung from the rafters. A workbench stood cluttered with strange instruments—glass vials, a brass astrolabe, what looked like a human fingerbone wrapped in silver wire.
"You're supposed to be dead," Ryn croaked.
Garron's lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Reports of my demise were... exaggerated." He gestured to Ryn's leg. "Let me see that before you bleed out on my floor."
Ryn didn't lower the dagger. "Lira said you betrayed my father."
"Lira says many things." Garron rummaged through a chest, producing a roll of clean linen and a bottle of murky liquid. "Most of them wrong."
The pain made Ryn reckless. He lunged, dagger aimed at Garron's throat—
—only for the older man to sidestep effortlessly, catching Ryn's wrist and twisting until the weapon clattered to the floor.
"Still leading with your right," Garron sighed. "Some things never change."
Ryn found himself pressed face-first against the wall, his wounded leg screaming in protest. Garron's grip was iron, his breath hot against Ryn's ear.
"Listen carefully, boy. Malrik didn't attack your family just for the Heartwind Stone. He's after *you*."
Ryn stilled. "Why?"
"Because of what you are." Garron released him, shoving the medical supplies into his hands. "Now patch yourself up before I have to carry you to Kael Manor."
---
The moon hung heavy over the ruins when they arrived.
Ryn's leg throbbed beneath the fresh bandages, but the pain kept him sharp. Garron moved like a ghost through the rubble, his scarred face unreadable in the silver light.
"They're already here," Garron whispered, pointing to fresh tracks in the ash.
Ryn didn't need to ask who *they* were. The black wolf crest stamped into the mud said enough.
Garron led him to a hidden cellar door, half-buried beneath collapsed masonry. The lock had been melted away—not by heat, but by that same void energy Ryn had seen in Malrik's blade.
The stairs descended into darkness.
"Stay close," Garron breathed. "And whatever you do—"
A scream cut him off.
Human, but wrong—stretched too thin, pitched too high. It echoed up the stairwell, followed by a wet crunch that turned Ryn's stomach.
Garron's good eye widened. "He's already started the ritual."
They descended into the dark.
The chamber below defied reason. What should have been simple wine cellars opened into a vast cavern, its walls carved with ancient runes that pulsed faintly blue. At its center stood an altar of black stone, its surface etched with silver lines that formed a complex sigil.
And chained to that altar—
Ryn's breath caught.
**[The Heartwind Stone]**
*Source of the Stormcaller lineage*
*Pulsing with trapped storm energy*
*Currently: Being corrupted by Void Astra*
Malrik stood over it, his void-blade plunged deep into the stone's core. Tendrils of black energy spread through the Heartwind like poison through veins, twisting its natural blue glow into something sickly and violet.
Around him lay the remains of his own men—sacrifices to whatever dark ritual he was performing. Their blood ran in channels along the altar's grooves, feeding the sigil.
Garron gripped Ryn's shoulder. "We have one chance. When I give the signal—"
Malrik's head snapped up.
"Ah." His voice echoed unnaturally in the cavern. "The lost pup returns."
The void-blade wrenched free with a sound like tearing metal. The Heartwind Stone pulsed erratically, its light dimming.
Malrik's helmet had changed—no longer a beast's visage, but something smoother, more refined. Like a king's crown wrought in black iron.
"I'll admit," Malrik said, stepping over corpses, "I didn't expect you to deliver Garron as well. Two Stormcallers for the price of one."
Garron shoved Ryn behind him. "Run, boy. I'll hold him—"
Malrik moved faster than Ryn could blink.
One moment he stood by the altar. The next, his void-blade protruded from Garron's chest, its tip glistening red.
Garron coughed blood, his fingers scrabbling at the blade. "Ryn... the stone... it's the only—"
Malrik twisted the blade. Garron's words died in a wet gasp.
Ryn's world narrowed to a single point.
The wind howled through the chamber, scattering bones and ash. Ryn didn't remember moving, but suddenly he was at the altar, his hands closing around the Heartwind Stone—
—just as Malrik's void-blade found his back.
White-hot pain exploded through Ryn's body. He screamed, his fingers tightening convulsively around the stone.
The last thing he saw before darkness took him was the Heartwind Stone erupting in a storm of blue light—and Malrik's shocked face as the cavern collapsed around them.