The northern winds howled across the plains, carrying with them the scent of frost and smoke from the campfires. Eryndor stood at the ridge, boots dug into the hard earth, his eyes locked on the shifting silhouette in the distance.
It moved with the deliberate weight of something that belonged to another age. Each step sent a faint tremor through the ground. From this distance, he could make out glints of pale scales, jagged like shards of crystal, catching what little sunlight pierced the gray clouds above.
The soldiers gathered behind him, restless and murmuring. They had fought wolf-lions, void-born strays, even chimeric beasts, but this was different. This thing carried an aura that pressed on the chest, heavy and suffocating.
"Report," Eryndor said without turning. His voice was calm, steady, though his storm hummed beneath the surface like a drumbeat.
A scout cleared his throat nervously. "It came down from the eastern cliffs at dawn. We thought it was a landslide until it stood up and—" His words faltered. "It's the size of a keep, sir."
The men fell silent.
Eryndor exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. He remembered his father's words during training: Some monsters were never meant to be killed. Only understood, endured, or outlasted.
The encampment buzzed with controlled chaos. Soldiers reinforced palisades, set heavy ballistae in place, and loaded barrels of oil. Runners carried messages to neighboring outposts, though none expected reinforcements soon.
Eryndor sat cross-legged near the fire, sharpening his blade with deliberate care. Each pull of the whetstone was slow, methodical, a rhythm to match his own heartbeat. He wasn't sharpening for the steel—his lightning could turn any weapon into a conduit—but for his focus.
Around him, soldiers whispered.
"Does he think steel will matter against that thing?"
"He fought off an entire pack without breaking a sweat. Maybe he knows something we don't."
"Or maybe he's just mad."
Eryndor ignored them. His storm pulsed in time with the faint quakes of the monster's approach, as though the world itself was daring him to rise and meet it.
By dusk, the creature had closed the distance. The ground shook beneath its steps. Soldiers clutched their weapons tighter, the ballista crews adjusting their aim, every man and woman tense.
The beast emerged fully into view—its body was massive, reptilian but twisted, with crystal-like scales jutting at odd angles. Its eyes glowed faintly, like molten amber. Steam hissed from its nostrils with each breath.
The commander barked, "Loose!"
The ballistae fired. Heavy bolts streaked through the air, striking the creature's side. Sparks skittered harmlessly across its crystalline hide. It barely flinched.
A low rumble built in its chest, growing into a roar that shook the very sky. Soldiers staggered, some dropping weapons, others clutching their ears.
Eryndor rose, calm in the chaos, cloak shifting in the wind. He stepped forward, each pace deliberate, until he stood at the broken line between man and monster.
The storm hummed within him, eager, restless. He flexed his fists, lightning sparking faintly across his knuckles.
The soldiers fell quiet. Eyes turned to him, the boy who had scattered wolf-lions and stood unshaken before the elder.
"Hold the line," Eryndor said softly, his voice carrying against the roar of the plains. "This one's mine."
The beast lowered its head, eyes locking on the lone figure standing before it. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Then it charged, earth splitting beneath its massive steps.
Eryndor moved, not back, not away, but forward.
He slid beneath its first swipe, sparks exploding as its claws tore into the ground where he had stood. His palm struck upward, lightning snapping against its crystalline scales. The impact rang out like a bell, sending cracks spider-webbing faintly across one plate.
The beast roared, spinning, tail lashing. Eryndor ducked again, rolling across the dirt, coming up with a burst of speed. Lightning coiled around his fists, each strike leaving glowing marks on the monster's armored hide.
It was like striking a mountain. But each crack, each spark, was proof—this thing could bleed.
The soldiers roared in encouragement, their fear melting into awe.
Eryndor exhaled, eyes narrowing as the storm in his veins surged brighter. This wasn't just a fight for survival. This was a test—of everything his father had drilled into him, of every lesson the White had scarred into his soul.
And for the first time since stepping onto the plains, he allowed himself the faintest grin.
The storm was ready.
And so was he.