Time in the Vale had ceased to be a linear measure. It was a weight, a pressure, a cycle of exertion and exhaustion that stretched moments into hours and weeks into eternities. Kael moved through the rust-colored gloom of the Rust Woods clearing, a study in controlled fatigue. Sweat plastered grime-streaked hair to his forehead, tracing paths through the dirt on his face. His breath came in controlled rasps, each inhalation tasting of ozone and iron. His muscles screamed, a constant, deep burn that had become as much a part of him as his own bones. He was leaner, harder, every line of his body etched with the relentless demands of survival.
Before him stood not one, but three crude, pulsating moss-men, conjured from the corrupted ground by a grunting effort from Wrynn. Kael didn't hesitate. He flowed.
Windstrike was a silver blur, deflecting a club-fist aimed at his head with a sharp clang, the impact jarring up his arm. Simultaneously, Skyrend darted low, not to stab, but to scrape viciously across the glowing energy seam at the base of the second construct's leg. Sparks flew, the creature stumbling. He pivoted, using the momentum to drive his shoulder into the third moss-man, buying himself a fraction of a second. Frostbite wasn't on his back; it was in his hands.
He didn't summon the storm. He channeled it. A fraction of the ambient charge, the latent power thrumming in the stones and air, surged through him and into the axe. Frostbite's runes flared a fierce, electric blue. He didn't swing wildly; he brought the axe head down in a precise, brutal arc onto the stumbling moss-man's "head" – the nexus of its crude energy veins. There was no explosion this time, no wasted fury. The contained lightning discharge cracked through the construct, overloading its core. It collapsed instantly into a sizzling, inert heap of earth and scorched moss.
One down. Two to go.
Kael spun, Frostbite a humming counterweight. He met the recovered first moss-man's next blow not with a block, but with a deflecting parry, using the axe's haft to redirect the force past him, stepping inside its guard. Skyrend flashed, finding the glowing seam at its hip joint. The creature roared, its movements faltering. Kael disengaged, ducking under a wild swing from the second construct. He planted Frostbite point-down into the moss, grounding himself instantly. With his free hand, he drew Windstrike and slammed its tip into the ground beside the axe, creating a circuit.
Guide. Don't command.
He focused on the building static, the anger radiating from the charging moss-man. He felt the connection, the path of least resistance. A jagged fork of lightning, thinner than before but intensely focused, lanced from the charged canopy, drawn to Windstrike's tip. It grounded through the axe and surged *up* through the moss directly beneath the charging elemental. The creature froze mid-stride, convulsed violently as the energy overloaded its core, and collapsed in a shower of sparks and smoking debris.
The last moss-man, damaged by Skyrend, lurched towards him. Kael yanked Frostbite free. He didn't need the lightning now. He met the charge head-on, Frostbite whistling in a short, brutal horizontal arc. The thunderstone-reinforced edge sheared through the compacted earth and rust at the construct's "neck," decapitating it cleanly. The body crumpled.
Silence descended, broken only by Kael's ragged breathing and the sizzle of dying energy. He leaned on Frostbite, the axe humming softly against his palm, a comforting vibration amidst the bone-deep weariness.
Wrynn grunted from his thunderstone perch. "Less flash. More smash. Better." He spat onto the moss. "Still thinkin' too much with the spark. Let it flow through the steel, not dance around it. The axe ain't a fancy conductor rod forever, boy. It's a weapon. Make the thunder bite."
Kael nodded, too tired for words. He looked past the clearing, deeper into the Rust Woods, towards the source of the ever-present, bone-deep thrum that grew stronger, more chaotic, the further east one went. The Ironwood Vale Core. He'd seen the unnatural glow on the horizon during violent storms – not lightning, but a sickly, pulsating violet light that seemed to warp the air itself. He'd felt the ground tremble with energies that made the Rust Woods feel tame. Rumors whispered by the few traders brave enough to skirt the Vale's edges spoke of lands twisted by wild magic, creatures of living storm and sentient rock, temporal rifts, and places where the very fabric of reality frayed. It was a place of legend and nightmare, spoken of in the same hushed, fearful tones as the mythical Verdant Labyrinth – though Kael knew nothing of that trial yet.
"Wrynn," Kael asked, wiping sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand, his voice hoarse. "The Core… what's truly out there? Beyond the Rust Woods?"
Wrynn's single blue eye snapped to him, sharp as a lightning strike. The usual gruffness vanished, replaced by a cold, hard intensity that made the air itself feel heavier. "Get that thought out of your skull, Stormborn. Right now. Pry it out with Skyrend if you have to."
He stood, his weathered frame suddenly radiating palpable danger. "The Core ain't a place for learnin'. It ain't a challenge. It's an ending. A slow, scream-in-the-dark-forever kind of ending." He jabbed a gnarled finger towards the ominous eastern horizon. "Men stronger than you, smarter than you, men who thought they knew thunder, walked that way lookin' for power or secrets. They don't walk back. They don't scream back. They just… stop bein'. The land eats 'em. The storms unravel 'em. Time forgets 'em." He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.
"You want to die useful? Fine. Die masterin' the Rim. Die swingin' Frostbite for Blackhold. But walk towards that violet glow?" He shook his head slowly, the milky white eye seeming to stare through Kael. "That's not death. That's vanishin'. And not even the Vale remembers the vanished. Now, drink. Eat. And shut up about the Core."
The finality in Wrynn's tone was absolute, colder than the mountain streams. Kael looked back towards the east, the curiosity momentarily doused by a chill deeper than fatigue. He nodded silently, turning back to his water skin and the tough strips of dried meat. The Core wasn't just dangerous; it was oblivion.
(Durahn - The Stoneheart Hall: A Feast of Obligation)
The Stoneheart Hall echoed with the boisterous clamor of a Durahn feast – the clatter of heavy trenchers, the boom of laughter, the clash of tankards. King Brom presided at the head of a massive granite table, gnawing on a roasted haunch of aurochs. Princess Ysra sat beside him, her expression impassive as she methodically reduced a block of ironwood beside her plate to intricate, useless shavings with a touch, a silent display of control.
Prince Borin (18), however, fidgeted. His usual competitive fire was dampened, replaced by a sullen restlessness. His gaze kept drifting down the table to where the Marinos delegation sat. Princess Coralie (16) was a vision of composed indifference amidst the Durahn roughness. She picked delicately at her food – grilled fish and seaweed salad brought specifically for her – while conversing quietly with Admiral Selene. She hadn't looked Borin's way once.
High Admiral Korso, seated beside Coralie, raised his wine goblet (imported crystal, looking absurdly fragile in the stone hall) towards Brom. "A fine feast, King Brom! Durahn's hospitality is as… substantial… as its mountains!"
Brom slammed his own tankard down, sloshing ale. "Aye! None of Varyndor's nibblin' on petals here! We feed warriors!" He gestured expansively, belching. "Soon enough, our houses will be bound tighter than mountain roots, eh, Korso? When these two tie the knot!" He jerked a thick thumb towards Borin and Coralie.
Borin straightened, a flush creeping up his neck. He forced a smile, raising his own tankard in a clumsy salute towards Coralie. "To… future alliances!"
Coralie finally looked up. Her gaze met Borin's, not with warmth or shyness, but with the cool, assessing detachment of someone examining an unusual rock formation. A faint, polite smile touched her lips, not reaching her sea-grey eyes. "To the future, Prince Borin," she echoed, her voice clear and carrying, devoid of any particular inflection. She took a small, precise sip of water, not wine, then immediately returned her attention to Selene, murmuring something about tidal patterns near Grey Spire.
Borin's forced smile faltered. He lowered his tankard, the flush deepening. Korso chuckled smoothly, patting Coralie's hand with exaggerated affection. "Patience, young Borin! My pearl is worth the wait. She studies the tides, the currents… the flow of things. All in good time." His smile held a hint of condescension. "The engagement stands, Brom. A rock-solid pact between Durahn and Marinos. Coralie understands her duty." He emphasized the word 'duty' lightly, but the implication was clear. Interest was irrelevant.
Ysra glanced at her brother's discomfort, then back to Coralie's cool indifference. A faint, almost imperceptible frown creased her brow before vanishing, replaced by her usual stoic mask. She resumed shredding the ironwood. Borin stared into his ale, the festive noise of the hall suddenly feeling hollow.
(Blackhold - The Great Hall: Four Months Gone)
A fire roared in the massive hearth of Blackhold's Great Hall, casting flickering light on the stern faces of the Wolf's family. Four months. The weight of the elapsed time hung in the air, thick as the peat smoke. Autumn was deepening towards winter, and the first true snows dusted the highest peaks visible through the arrow-slit windows.
Lord Toran stood before the fire, his back to the flames, casting his face in shadow. Lady Elyna sat nearby, Frostfang resting against her chair, her sharp eyes fixed on Toran. Roran, in his full lord-heir armor, stood rigidly attentive. Talin fidgeted beside Lira, who sat quietly, her fingers tracing the worn wolf carving she'd made months before.
"The moon thins," Toran stated, his voice a low rumble that filled the hall. "Four months since Kael entered the Vale. One month remains before we ride for Grey Spire."
Silence stretched. Talin finally burst out, "But Kael! Will he be back? Wrynn said maybe a year!"
Roran placed a heavy hand on his younger brother's shoulder, quieting him, but his own gaze held the same question, tightly leashed.
Elyna spoke, her voice cool and pragmatic. "Wrynn's timeframe was always fluid. The Vale bends time as well as magic. He could emerge tomorrow, or…" She left the alternative hanging, unspoken but understood. "...he might not emerge before the snows seal the high passes behind us."
Toran nodded grimly. "We cannot wait. The Conclave summons. Blackhold answers. We ride when the moon thins, with or without Kael." He looked at each of them in turn. "Roran, your command of the Greycloaks is solid. You lead the vanguard. Elyna, you and Lira hold the center. Talin, you ride with the rearguard – observe, learn, stay sharp." He paused, his gaze lingering on the empty space near the weapon racks where Frostbite once stood. "Kael's path is his own. The Vale is his crucible now. If he emerges in time, he rides with us. If not…" Toran's jaw tightened. "...he knows the way to Grey Spire. And he knows his duty to Blackhold."
Lira clutched her carving tighter. "He'll come back," she whispered, not looking up. "He has to."
Roran met his father's gaze, his voice firm. "We'll be ready to ride, Father. Blackhold stands together." He glanced towards the darkened windows, as if he could see through the mountains to the distant, lightning-wracked Vale. "And if he's not at the gates when the horn sounds… we'll see him at Grey Spire. Or after." The unspoken 'or never' hung heavy, but Roran's faith, tempered by duty, held it at bay.
Toran placed a hand on the cold stone mantelpiece, absorbing its solid strength. "Prepare. Sharpen steel. Check mounts. One month. Then we show the Accord that wolves endure, regardless of the storm." His gaze, like flint, held no doubt, only the unwavering resolve of the mountains he defended. The question of Kael's return remained unanswered, a silent tension beneath the iron certainty of Blackhold's departure.