Walden stared, a slow chill creeping up his spine despite the training grounds' warmth. Before him stood Solvane, but changed. Gone was the hesitant prince, replaced by a figure radiating barely contained power. Solvane's fur, usually sleek and dark, seemed alive. It danced across his form in slow, hypnotic waves, shimmering with an inner light that pulsed like captured starlight. Most unnerving were his eyes. No longer their familiar shade, they blazed with pure, molten gold, holding an intensity that pinned Walden in place. And within that golden gaze, Walden saw it: pride. A fierce, hard-won pride directed solely at him. It was unnerving. Solvane might not recall the specifics of the council chamber debacle, the humiliations, the brush with death wiped clean from his mind, but he remembered *this*. He remembered the key to unlocking the power simmering beneath his skin.
***
The memory slammed into Solvane as he met Walden's shocked gaze. He saw himself, alone days earlier, fists raw and bloody against the unyielding face of the training statue. Adamantite. The name surfaced, cold and hard as the metal itself. The hardest ore known in Avalah, forged specifically to withstand royal fury. He'd hammered at it, blow after futile blow, driven by a frustration he couldn't name, the skin splitting over his knuckles, crimson staining the grey metal. Each impact jarred his bones, each failure a fresh sting.
But it wasn't the physical pain that truly broke him. It was the fractured shards of memory, sharp as glass. Filin's sneering contempt in the council hall. The crushing weight of being dismissed, belittled, treated like inconvenient refuse. The terrifying blank space where his near-murder should have been. *He could have been snuffed out like a guttering candle, and forgotten before the ashes cooled.* The realization was a physical blow, knocking the breath from him. His life, all his striving to be the perfect son, the worthy prince… it was *trivial*. Meaningless. Expendable at the whim of those stronger.
That moment, kneeling before the adamantite giant, blood dripping onto the stone floor, something fundamental shifted inside him. The desperate need to please his imposing father? Ash. The yearning to be seen as a loving son? Dust. What value was love if it meant living on his knees? What good was approval if it came at the cost of his own voice, his own choices? The path laid before him by blood and tradition felt like a gilded cage. Freedom wasn't granted to sons; it was seized by the strong.
His memory was stolen, wiped clean by powers he couldn't comprehend. But they couldn't reach this core, this burning ember in his chest. They couldn't erase the *will* for freedom, the instinctive, animal drive to break free. It wasn't a conscious desire before, buried under layers of duty and fear. Fear of *him*. His father. The cold authority, the unreadable eyes, the sheer *presence* that made Solvane's fur prickle with instinctive dread. The king wasn't just a parent; he was a force of nature, terrifying in his absolute control. Pleasing him wasn't love; it was survival.
The revelation was a spark igniting tinder. Solvane rose, not with the dutiful resignation of a prince fulfilling a curriculum requirement, but with the single-minded fury of a creature cornered and ready to fight for its life. He looked at the adamantite statue, no longer a training dummy, but a symbol of every barrier, every limitation, every terrifying authority figure he'd ever faced. His fist, already mangled, drew back. This blow wasn't practice. It was defiance. It was the first step on a path he would carve himself, with blood and bone if necessary.
*Thud. Thud. THUD!*
Again. And again. And again. Pain screamed up his arm, a white-hot agony that blurred his vision. His knuckles were pulp. He ignored it. The adamantite remained unmarked, a silent, mocking judge. Despair threatened, cold and heavy. Then, a flicker. A subtle warmth spread from his core, a vibration beneath his skin. His fur, matted with sweat and blood, seemed to *catch* the light, shimmering faintly. Power surged, unfamiliar and intoxicating, channeling into his shattered fist. He didn't think; he roared, pouring every ounce of newfound fury, every drop of fear transmuted into rage, into one final, desperate strike.
***CRACK!***
The sound was immense, echoing off the stone walls like a thunderclap. Not the adamantite shattering – that was impossible. But Solvane felt bone give way, saw the sickening glimpse of white amidst the ruin of his own fist. Yet, his gaze was fixed on the statue's impassive face. There, impossibly, defiantly, was a dent. Tiny. Barely a fingernail's depth in the nigh-indestructible metal. But it was *there*. His blood smeared its edge.
Solvane smiled. A grim, blood-streaked curve of his lips that held no joy, only savage triumph. *He had marked it.* He had defied the unbreakable. Pain was secondary. He wrapped his ruined hand clumsily in a torn strip of cloth, the fabric instantly blooming crimson. He raised his other fist. If his hands failed, he'd use his feet. If his feet broke, he'd use his head. He'd batter himself unconscious against this symbol of oppression, heal, and do it again. And again. Training was no longer an obligation; it was oxygen. It was survival. It was the only path to the freedom that memory loss couldn't steal.
***
Now, back in the present, that same fierce light burned in Solvane's golden eyes as he held Walden's gaze. The memory of blood, bone, and the adamantite dent solidified his resolve. He saw Walden shake off his shock, the older warrior's expression shifting into something predatory, almost… pleased.
Walden grinned, a feral baring of teeth. "Congratulations, Your Majesty." The title held a new weight, an acknowledgment of power, not just birthright. "I don't need to hold back anymore, I assume?" His body seemed to blur at the edges.
Solvane didn't speak. His hand, the one that had shattered against adamantite but was now whole and strong through whatever power surged within him, dropped to the pommel of his sword. The air crackled, thick with unleashed potential and impending violence.
From Walden's form, like shadows detaching, two figures coalesced. Perfect duplicates, clad identically, moving with the same lethal grace. One stretched, rolling powerful shoulders with a audible *pop*. The other flexed its wrists, knuckles cracking sharply. They didn't just mimic Walden; they *were* extensions of his will, independent, predatory, their eyes fixed on Solvane with unnerving focus.5 Waldens now stood where one had been.
. The three Waldens shifted into identical, perfectly balanced stances. Their expressions were chillingly identical: focused, calculating, utterly devoid of mercy.
A palpable wave of tension rolled outwards. Every observer, hidden or hidden no longer, felt it deep in their marrow – the coiled-spring anticipation, the ozone scent before the storm. The whispers died. Breath caught.
**The grand finale was here.**