The days that followed felt like stepping into a forgotten legend.
For the first time since the battle against Vorathrax, Eryndor Nasarik wasn't fighting for his life. Instead, he was surrounded by silence—the kind of silence only ancient places knew. The Nasarik Domain was alive, breathing through the pulse of its crystal spires and living marble veins. Every wall, every floating stone held generations of combat memories.
He stood in the middle of an open training platform, wind carving lazy spirals around him as sunlight poured from a gap in the clouds. His coat fluttered faintly.
Before him stood Vaelis Nasarik, her long silver hair glowing faintly blue in the light, eyes cold but patient. The Storm Queen herself.
"Again," she said simply.
Eryndor exhaled, raising his right hand. He gathered the energy around his core—the familiar vibration of his storm affinity swelling through him—but this time, he didn't let it run wild. He visualized it. Shaped it.
Wind compressed around his arm like a coiled serpent, and a faint electric blue light flickered along his veins. His focus narrowed, until all he heard was the rhythm of his own breathing.
"Wind without focus is nothing," Vaelis said, pacing in a slow circle around him. "Lightning without control is destruction. You carry both. You must make them agree."
He nodded silently and moved.
His foot shifted—fast, clean, silent—and a gust followed, exploding into a sharp wave that tore through the air. The impact blew a crater into the far end of the platform, stone and dust scattering like sand.
Vaelis raised an eyebrow. "Better."
Eryndor wiped sweat from his temple. "Feels like I'm forcing two storms into one body."
"That's exactly what you are," she replied, her tone softening slightly. "But your bloodline… it's meant for this." She raised her hand, and for an instant, the world darkened—the air itself bending as wind and lightning formed a spiral so immense it bent gravity. "The true Nasarik Storm isn't mere power. It's equilibrium between chaos and will."
Her voice lowered. "Find the calm in the thunder."
Later that evening…
Eryndor sat in the courtyard beneath the hanging trees, his breath steadying. Kairen Nasarik, the Soulsmith, approached carrying a long, sealed scroll and a blade that shimmered faintly in the dark.
"You're adapting quickly," Kairen said, setting the weapon beside him. "Faster than most in our family did."
Eryndor smiled faintly. "Necessity teaches fast."
Kairen chuckled, lowering himself to sit beside him. "I heard about what you did with that Titan. You've got more of Ravien's recklessness than you realize."
Eryndor looked out toward the stars. "He was really that strong?"
Kairen's tone softened. "Strong enough to make gods wary. But he was more than strength. He understood purpose. And right now, that's what you're trying to find."
The two sat in silence for a moment before Kairen added, "That blade beside you—Stormveil—isn't just a weapon. It's alive. The Nasarik way isn't to wield power; it's to understand it."
Eryndor ran his fingers over the hilt. The blade hummed faintly in response.
It wasn't just steel—it felt like a whisper from his lineage.
"Understand it, huh…" he muttered. "That's harder than fighting monsters."
Kairen laughed softly. "Then you're on the right path."
The Training Progression
Over the following weeks, Eryndor's routine became sacred repetition.
•At dawn, he meditated within the Astral Wind Chamber, balancing mana flow and breath until his aura no longer fluctuated.
•By day, he sparred with Vaelis and Raegor, learning how to blend his martial art, Astral Flow, with his storm energy.
•At dusk, he trained under Kairen, forging mental projections and practicing soul reinforcement.
•And at night, he sat beside Lyanna in their guest quarters, listening to the faint heartbeat of the child she carried, her presence grounding him.
He learned to channel energy from his heartbeat itself, to use his pulse as rhythm, and his will as conductor.
Each motion, each breath, became more refined.
Even his Storm Martial Arts evolved.
What began as raw, instinctive movement became structured and flowing—wind guiding his stance, lightning striking between steps.
He called it Celestial Tempest Form — a perfect harmony between grace and destruction.
By the end of the second week, even Vaelis smiled during sparring. "You're learning to dance with the storm," she said.
Eryndor exhaled, sweat dripping from his jaw. "Feels more like surviving it."
That night, they gathered at the central courtyard—a quiet dinner beneath a violet moon. The family shared stories, laughter, and small quarrels. For the first time, Eryndor saw the Nasarik family not as gods or legends, but as people.
Altheon poured wine into crystal cups. "You've done well, Eryndor," he said. "But strength is not all you'll need. The world ahead will demand more than your fists."
"I know," Eryndor said. "That's why I'm here."
Aldric leaned back, chuckling. "That's my boy."
Lyanna smiled softly beside him. "You really belong here, Eryndor."
He looked around at them all—their warmth, their ease—and felt something rare settle in his chest.
Peace.
For a moment, it almost felt like the world had stopped fighting.
But Elsewhere…
Far beyond the radiant cities of the Nasarik Dominion—past the void rifts and astral winds—something stirred.
In the Outer Abyss, where broken constellations floated like bones, a black temple rose from nothingness. Its walls were alive, breathing, pulsing with veins of crimson light.
Inside, six figures knelt before an obsidian throne. The air was thick with silence.
A single heartbeat echoed through the chamber—deep, heavy, ancient.
Then, from the throne, a voice—smooth, composed, and utterly chilling—spoke.
"So… they've awakened the child."
One of the figures trembled. "Yes, my lord. The Nasarik heir has returned."
The figure on the throne leaned forward, and eyes of solid silver opened—glowing faintly like two moons.
"Good," he whispered. "Let the bloodline believe they've found peace. It will make breaking them far sweeter."
A low hum filled the chamber as ancient runes ignited beneath the floor, spreading across the void.
Another voice, feminine and cold as winter, spoke from the shadows. "Shall we move now?"
The man on the throne smiled faintly. "No. Let the storm grow. Let him become everything he was meant to be… so that when we take it from him, even the gods will weep."
The six kneeling figures lowered their heads as the black light engulfed the temple.
The Third Branch of Nasarik had awakened.
And the world—unknowing, serene, fragile—had just begun counting down to the next war.