The night sky above the Vaelith estate shimmered faintly, painted in shades of silver and blue. The storm that Eryndor had summoned earlier had long since faded, leaving behind a sky so clear that every star looked like a shard of glass reflecting the moon.
The gentle hum of mana still clung to the air — a lingering echo of his awakening.
Inside, the room was dim, lit only by a soft lantern. Lyanna lay on the bed, her hair scattered across the pillow like silk threads, eyes half open as Eryndor quietly approached. His movements were light, deliberate — he was still learning to control the immense energy that pulsed through him.
He knelt beside her, his gaze softening as he looked at her belly — now visibly rounder, the faintest curve of new life beneath her skin.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice quiet, careful.
Lyanna smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Tired, sometimes… but he's healthy. I can feel it."
Eryndor's eyes softened. "He?"
Lyanna nodded, a small laugh escaping her. "You didn't know? I told you… you fell asleep before I could finish saying it."
He blinked once, realization dawning, and a quiet chuckle left him. "So it's a boy…"
He placed a hand gently on her stomach. Lightning — faint, harmless static — pulsed beneath his fingers. The aura that once shook battlefields now felt warm and alive.
"He's strong," Lyanna said softly. "Every time you use your storm, he moves. It's like he knows."
Eryndor stared, a faint warmth tugging at the corner of his lips. "Then he'll grow up knowing power isn't about destruction. It's about protection."
Lyanna's eyes glowed faintly blue under the lantern light. "And he'll have both of us to show him that."
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Rest. Tomorrow… I'll train again."
She smirked slightly. "You never stop."
"If I do," he whispered, "I might lose what's important."
Lyanna smiled — tired, gentle, radiant. "Then promise you'll come back every time. No matter how strong you get."
He nodded once. "Always."
As she drifted into sleep, Eryndor stayed by her side for a while, staring at the faint pulse of life under his hand.
Outside, thunder whispered in the distance. But this time… it sounded almost like a heartbeat.
Far Away — The Third Branch Awakens
Deep beneath the surface of an unknown continent, in a citadel carved from black crystal, the air quivered. The moment Eryndor's bloodline awakened, the wards and seals that guarded the chamber trembled — reacting to the surge of divine energy.
Inside a massive circular hall, eleven cloaked figures stood in silence. Their robes were embroidered with crimson runes, their faces hidden, their presence warping the air.
At the center of them, seated upon a throne of bone and lightless stone, was a man with snow-white hair, his crimson eyes faintly glowing beneath his hood.
"It's begun," he said, voice calm but resonant. "The heir of Nasarik… has awakened."
The one to his right, cloaked in black and silver, spoke with a low hiss. "Should we intervene?"
The leader tilted his head. "Not yet. Let him walk his path. The awakened bloodline will come to us in time… willingly or not."
He rose, his cloak falling away to reveal faint, vein-like marks pulsing along his arms. His name rippled through the chamber — whispered like a secret.
"Valen Nasarik," one of the cloaked members murmured.
Valen — the Third Branch's leader — smiled faintly. "Prepare the Council. The era of the Stormblood has returned."
The torches flickered blue — their light twisting into spirals as if the world itself bowed before the coming storm.
The sun had barely risen when Eryndor stood in the main courtyard of the Nasarik estate. The air buzzed faintly, anticipation hanging heavy. The courtyard stretched wide, built of pale marble with swirling silver engravings that pulsed with mana — a training ground for the main family's elite.
A dozen family members stood around the arena, watching curiously as Aldric approached with a faint grin.
"You're sure you want to do this?" Aldric asked, arms crossed. "The main branch doesn't play around."
Eryndor adjusted his trench coat, rolling his shoulders. "Neither do I."
A faint laugh rose from the crowd. From the opposite side of the courtyard, a tall man stepped forward — sharp eyes, black hair slicked back, his coat lined with silver runes. He looked calm, confident.
"So you're the one causing all the noise," the man said. "Eryndor Nasarik."
Eryndor tilted his head slightly. "And you are?"
"Luthien Nasarik. Eldest son of the main branch's guardian line." He smirked faintly. "Let's see if the stories about you aren't exaggerated."
Eryndor smiled back. "They usually are."
The moment Aldric raised his hand, the marble beneath them cracked.
Luthien moved first — impossibly fast. His fist shot forward like a bullet, wrapped in searing flame. Eryndor twisted just enough for the blow to graze past him, heat brushing his face as the ground exploded.
Eryndor countered with a low sweep, lightning flashing along his leg. Luthien leapt back, landing smoothly before slamming both palms down — Flame Veins, molten cracks racing through the marble like a spiderweb.
Eryndor stepped forward, exhaling. The air around him rippled — Gale Step.
He vanished, reappearing behind Luthien, his palm cutting through the air like a blade — Surge Palm. The shockwave threw Luthien off balance, but he twisted midair, countering with a fiery roundhouse kick that clashed directly against Eryndor's lightning-clad forearm.
The courtyard quaked, dust exploding outward.
"Fast," Luthien muttered, sliding back a step. "But not faster than fire."
"You'll find out," Eryndor said calmly, straightening his stance. "Lightning learns faster."
They clashed again — fists and feet a blur.
Every hit cracked the air, every dodge painted arcs of flame and static through the sky.
Luthien unleashed Infernal Mirage — splitting into three blazing copies, circling him with simultaneous attacks.
Eryndor closed his eyes — calm — and the world slowed.
Wind whispered.
Lightning answered.
His hand moved once — a small, fluid motion.
Skyveil Mirage.
The copies vanished in an instant, torn apart by the storm's precision. Eryndor appeared above Luthien, descending with a spinning kick — Tempest Coil. Lightning and wind spiraled down his leg, a strike so fast it left a trail of light across the air.
Luthien blocked — barely — both hands raised, heat bursting outward. The impact forced him to his knees, the marble beneath them shattering into a crater.
"Not bad," Luthien said between breaths. "But you're still holding back."
Eryndor exhaled slowly, his aura shifting. The air pressure changed; his veins pulsed faintly with electric blue light.
"If I didn't," he said, "you'd already be unconscious."
He moved.
No flash. No sound. Just presence.
Heaven's Silence.
The next instant, Luthien's barrier shattered — silent, effortless. He was thrown across the courtyard, sliding across the cracked marble before stopping near the edge.
The silence that followed was deafening. Then — applause. One by one, members of the Nasarik main branch began to clap, some impressed, others in disbelief.
Luthien stood, dusting off his clothes, a faint smirk on his lips. "You've got your grandfather's spirit, I'll give you that."
Eryndor extended a hand, helping him up. "And you've got the pride to match it."
Aldric watched from the sidelines, arms folded, smiling to himself.
"Just like your grandfather," he murmured. "And yet… something entirely new."
As the sun climbed higher, the air around the courtyard felt lighter. The members of the Nasarik family bowed slightly as Eryndor passed, whispers following him.
"Stormblood…"
"He mastered the Eightfold Flow…"
"No, he became it."
But far across the world, deep beneath the dark citadel, Valen Nasarik's crimson eyes opened once more. He felt the surge in his veins, the resonance between two bloodlines awakening.
"The heir of the storm grows stronger," Valen whispered, voice low, dangerous. "Good. Let him rise. The higher he climbs… the harder he'll fall."
And in the silence that followed, thunder rolled faintly across both skies — two storms awakening on opposite ends of the world.