The morning came quietly, wrapped in a mist that hung low over the marble terraces of the Vaelith Estate. The world outside still bore faint scars of the great battle, but within these old, sprawling walls, warmth returned—through laughter, footsteps, and the scent of home.
Eryndor and Lyanna stood before the heavy oaken doors, her hand resting gently in his, the light of dawn catching in her hair. Servants whispered their names, word spreading like wildfire: the son who returned from the frontlines. The stormwalker.
The doors opened, revealing Lord Aldric Vaelith, standing tall in his elegant dark-blue robe, his hair streaked with age yet his posture sharp as ever. His eyes softened when they met Eryndor's—an expression that had been rare, once.
"So…" Aldric said, his voice a mix of relief and disbelief. "The prodigal son truly returns. And not just with scars—but with life beside him."
Eryndor smiled faintly. "It's good to be back, Father."
Lyanna bowed slightly in respect. "Lord Aldric. It's an honor."
Aldric's gaze shifted to her, recognizing the quiet power behind her grace. "And this must be the woman who tamed my storm-born son. Come, both of you. There's warmth waiting."
They sat together in the grand hall beneath the great chandelier, sunlight pouring in through stained glass depictions of the Vaelith lineage—heroes and scholars alike, their stories etched in light.
Eryndor waited until the servants left before he spoke, his voice softer now.
"Father… there's something you should know."
Aldric turned from his tea, eyebrow lifting.
"Lyanna's expecting," Eryndor said. "You have a grandson on the way."
For a moment, Aldric froze. Then, laughter—low, genuine, and almost boyish—rumbled from his chest. "A grandson?" He rose, walking over to Lyanna, who smiled bashfully as he took her hands. "You've done what many in this house failed to do—bring light back into our halls. You've no idea how much this means, child."
Lyanna smiled. "He'll be raised strong. I promise you that."
"And loved," Eryndor added quietly.
The doors burst open suddenly, and in came the rest of the Vaelith children—Arden, the eldest son and commander of the border guard; Selia, the quick-witted mage; and Darius, the fiery middle brother whose temper once rivaled Eryndor's. They had returned early, having heard the news.
Arden grinned, throwing his arm around Eryndor's shoulders. "Still shorter than me, but the stories didn't lie—you took down something that could swallow mountains. Guess I should've known little brother wouldn't die quietly."
Darius smirked. "You've been gone too long. Maybe I should test if all those rumors are true."
Selia shot him a sharp look. "Test him and you'll wake up missing teeth."
Eryndor chuckled, warmth flickering across his face. "No need for a spar today. Maybe after breakfast."
For the first time in a long while, laughter filled the halls of House Vaelith—not mockery, not rivalry. Just family.
That evening, a courier arrived—dusty, winded, holding a sealed envelope with the crest of the Continental Command. Eryndor took it, breaking the wax, and his eyes skimmed the letter.
To Colonel Eryndor Vaelith (Nasarik),
Your valor and unmatched leadership during the Battle of Vorathrax have been recognized by the High Command. By decree, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Colonel. Your service remains a cornerstone of the defense of the world. You may return to active duty at your discretion; your freedom is yours to keep.
Signed,
General Kaedros Solmir
Eryndor folded the letter, smiling faintly. "They've given me freedom… and rank."
Aldric leaned back in his chair. "Then they've finally learned what I already knew—chains don't hold storms."
Later that night, as the moonlight filtered through the glass, Aldric called Eryndor to his study. The old man's eyes were sharp, his tone measured but heavy with something deeper.
"There's something you need to know, Eryndor. About our blood."
He gestured to an ancient mural—three great sigils carved into the stone.
"The Vaelith bloodline isn't a single house. It's a trinity. The Main Branch, the Second, and the Third. We," he said, tapping the central sigil, "are the second. The stabilizers. The ones who bear the burden of balance between the two extremes."
Eryndor frowned. "And the main branch?"
"Revered," Aldric replied. "Feared, even. Their power runs through the roots of creation itself. Some among them can forge realities through martial art and magic integration—creating universes inside their bodies. They are… legends given form."
"And the third?"
Aldric's eyes darkened. "That, my son, is the one branch no one truly understands. They vanished centuries ago—some say into another realm. Some say they merged with the shadows of existence itself."
He paused, stepping closer. "Tomorrow, you and Lyanna will meet the main family. It's time they recognized who you are—not just as my son, but as Eryndor Nasarik, bearer of the storm and heir to a legacy older than kings."
Eryndor looked at his father—Aldric Vaelith, proud and aged yet burning with unbroken will. "And my grandfather? The real Nasarik?"
Aldric nodded slowly. "Your grandfather was the bridge between the main and second branches. He fell protecting what the main family could not—something called The Heart of Tempest, an ancient martial seed. He left it behind… for you."
The name lingered like thunder in Eryndor's chest.
Aldric placed a hand on his shoulder. "You've already awakened part of it. Your storm isn't mere wind and lightning—it's lineage."
Eryndor bowed his head, eyes shadowed but burning. "Then tomorrow… I'll stand before them not as a son of the second branch, but as a Nasarik."
Lyanna appeared by the doorway, one hand on her belly, her smile both soft and knowing. "Then we'll face them together."
Aldric chuckled quietly. "Good. You'll need her fire. The Main Family isn't easily impressed."
The candles flickered in the room, shadows moving like ancient watchers. The blood of gods and mortals stirred once more.
Tomorrow, the storm would meet its roots.