The plaza stank of smoke and blood. Shattered stone lay in heaps, and the once-proud fountain was nothing but rubble and a pool of dirty water laced with streaks of red.
Eryndor sat on the edge of the broken steps, hunched forward, his arms resting on his knees. The lightning had finally left his veins, and with its absence came the ache—the deep, bone-heavy kind that no healing magic could mend. His knuckles were raw and bloodied.
Kael limped over and dropped down beside him with a hiss of pain. He set his blade down across his knees, hands trembling slightly as though they still wanted to fight. His breathing was uneven, shallow, but his grin carried a hint of relief.
"You're reckless as hell," Kael said after a long silence, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. "If I hadn't jumped in when I did—"
"You would've managed," Eryndor cut in, though his voice was hoarse, quieter than usual. He didn't look up. His eyes lingered on the lifeless body lying a few paces away. Thalos' face was still twisted in that last desperate fury, now frozen, meaningless.
Kael followed his gaze. The grin faded. "I don't like it," he admitted. "Killing an elder… it's not something people just ignore."
Eryndor said nothing. His silence was heavy, not indifferent but thoughtful, as though he was weighing what came next. He flexed his fingers, the faint sting of the storm still buzzing in them, and for the first time he wondered if Kael was right—if sparing Thalos from the start would have changed anything.
The answer was there in the ruin around them. No. Thalos had chosen his end.
"Eryndor," Kael said, voice steady now, "the city saw this. Word will spread faster than lightning. Veylan won't let it pass quietly. We need to be ready."
Far across the city, in the safety of the citadel's high chamber, Veylan gripped the edge of a long obsidian table until his knuckles turned white. Messengers had rushed in one after the other, their reports all the same: Thalos was dead. Killed by the storm-born outcast and the boy with the cursed blade.
The room was thick with tension, his lieutenants shifting uneasily under the weight of his silence.
"Thalos," Veylan said at last, his tone sharp enough to cut stone. "One of the strongest among us, undone by children."
A younger officer swallowed hard. "It wasn't just them, sir. They fought as one. Reports say… the boy Eryndor, he's different now. He's ascended a tier."
Veylan's eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. Behind the calm mask, however, his mind burned. Thalos' loss wasn't just personal—it was political. Elders were symbols, pillars of authority. To have one slain in the heart of the city by outsiders… it would shake the foundations of his control.
"Summon the council," he ordered coldly. "And double the watch. If Eryndor and Kael believe this victory makes them untouchable… they will learn otherwise."
Back in the ruined plaza, Kael leaned back against the broken steps, tilting his head up at the fading night sky. The storm clouds had cleared, and stars blinked faintly through the haze.
"Do you feel it?" he asked suddenly.
Eryndor looked at him. "Feel what?"
"The silence." Kael closed his eyes. "After a fight like that, it's deafening."
Eryndor let the words sink in. For the first time since the battle began, he noticed it too—the absence of footsteps, of voices, of anything but the faint crackle of smoldering stone. The city was holding its breath. Watching. Waiting.
He leaned back, his gaze fixed on the stars above. His body hurt, his mind ached, but beneath it all, he felt the faint hum of power—new, raw, and dangerous.
The storm inside him wasn't done.
And neither was the world around him.