The clash of steel and the guttural roars of beasts shook the walls, but within the barricaded inner hall, Eryndor lay utterly still. His body, battered beyond reason, had finally given out. To the soldiers, he looked like a man on the brink of death. To Lyanna, he looked like her entire world balanced on a thread.
Her father didn't flinch. Standing in the gateway, he cleaved through another charging monster, his blade crackling faintly with his own aura. His stance was unwavering, each swing not just for the town but for the daughter he had sworn to protect. Blood slicked the cobblestones, yet his eyes never wavered toward where she and Eryndor were sheltered.
Inside, Kael checked Eryndor's pulse for the third time. Still there. Still stubborn.
"He's breathing, but… he won't wake for a while," Kael muttered. "The fool burned through everything. Body, spirit, even his storm."
Lyanna brushed soot from Eryndor's cheek, her hand trembling. "Then he'll rest. He has to."
Within the Silence
Darkness did not swallow him whole.
Instead, Eryndor found himself standing in an endless sky. Stars hung suspended all around him, vast and patient, and beneath his feet lay nothing but the rippling surface of light. He knew this place wasn't real. It was deeper. Somewhere between thought and soul.
Then came a voice. Old, deep, and threaded with memory. His grandfather's.
"When the body falls, the spirit may still climb. Astral Meditation, they called it. The art of training where no flesh can hinder you."
Eryndor turned, and for a heartbeat, he swore he saw the old man's silhouette outlined in silver flame. Then it dissolved into the starlight.
And yet, he understood. This was no dream. This was a chance.
So he closed his eyes, sat within the sky of his own mind, and breathed. Slowly. Deeply. The storm in him, usually wild and consuming, bent to his will. For the first time, he wasn't wielding it — he was shaping it.
Days passed here like hours, his mind sharpening, replaying battles, refining techniques. The backlash of channeling too much power… he learned how to redirect it. The raw, violent arcs of lightning that once tore at his veins… he taught them to flow with his movements, as if guided by a dance.
He was still unconscious in the waking world, but here, he was training — and he was winning.
The monsters eventually broke, repelled by the combined forces of Lyanna's family and the garrison. The streets, though scorched, held. The town survived.
Within that fragile peace, another truth emerged.
Lyanna could no longer hide the way she clutched her stomach, the way her voice trembled when she spoke of the future. When her brother pressed, she broke into tears and confessed.
"He's going to be a father," she whispered, eyes fixed on Eryndor's still form. "And I… I can't keep it from you."
Her father stood in silence for a long moment. The warrior in him bristled with questions, but the father in him saw only his daughter, terrified yet steadfast. At last, he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.
"Then he'll be your husband," he said simply.
The decision was not grand or ceremonial. It was born of survival, of love, of necessity. The family gathered, and though Eryndor lay unconscious, the vows were spoken around him — a promise sealed with firelight and weary hearts.
Lyanna knelt by his side that night, resting her head against his chest. "When you wake," she whispered, "you'll know. We'll be waiting for you. Both of us."
Within the Astral Sky:
On the fourth day, something shifted.
Eryndor opened his eyes within the meditation, and the storm around him no longer raged aimlessly. It circled him, obedient and alive, a cloak of thunder he could call upon at will. He rose, fists clenched, his grandfather's voice echoing faintly once more.
"A storm is not just destruction, boy. It is renewal. It is life. Remember that."
And with that, Eryndor turned toward the faint shimmer of the waking world, ready to return.