The battlefield was quiet now. What remained of the Titan's broken frame smoked on the horizon, scattered across the plains like the bones of a fallen god. The armies had already begun to withdraw, their cheers and disbelief echoing long after the dust settled. But Eryndor stayed behind.
He needed silence. He needed to feel this storm inside him.
The clash with the Titan had burned something awake—two ultimates, resting deep within his veins, and a strange second current, not lightning but wind, weaving into his storm. He could feel it now, whispering through his blood like a restless breath of the sky.
He raised his hand. Lightning coiled around his arm, but instead of striking outward, it bent, caught by a sudden swirl of air. Sparks scattered into arcs, carried away in streams like fireflies on a breeze. Eryndor exhaled, and the storm seemed to respond.
"Wind… lightning…" he murmured. "A tempest."
He closed his eyes and let the storm move.
The ground cracked as he stepped forward. His body vanished in a blur, reappearing fifty feet away as if the air itself carried him. Sky Step. Not teleportation, but acceleration through currents of wind sharpened by his lightning. His boots touched the ground lightly, weightless.
He clenched his fist and thrust it outward. Air and lightning spiraled together, condensing into a sphere before detonating with a thunderclap. Dust shot backward in a cone, trees bending from the shockwave. Gale Burst. Pure, compressed storm pressure unleashed in a heartbeat.
But it wasn't only the affinities. His ultimates—he could feel them waiting, monumental, terrifying. Heaven's Rend, a strike so absolute it could tear through any defense, and Eternal Tempest, a storm without end, an ocean of lightning and wind that bent the battlefield to his will.
Just thinking about them sent a shiver down his spine.
He inhaled again, sparks trailing from his fingertips. It was intoxicating—this power, this clarity. But as he steadied himself, a voice cut across the open air.
"You haven't changed at all, have you?"
Eryndor stiffened. He knew that voice, though it had been years since he'd heard it. He turned.
Lyanna stood there, her cloak trailing in the wind, her dark hair catching the last light of dusk. She wasn't in armor—just a travel-worn tunic, boots scuffed from long roads, and her ever-defiant gaze fixed squarely on him.
For a moment, the storm inside him faltered. His chest felt tighter than when he faced the Titan's hollow sun.
"Lyanna…" His voice came out quieter than he expected.
She raised an eyebrow, half a smirk on her lips. "You level a monster that could wipe out nations, and the first thing you do is sneak off here to play with sparks? Some things never change."
Eryndor tried to answer, but the words caught. His mind ran back—long nights at the academy, shared glances, the awkward warmth he'd buried beneath training and battles. And now, she was here, standing in the middle of the quiet after his storm.
For the first time since the war began, he didn't know whether to raise his hand in defense—or just let it fall to his side.