By his eighteenth year, Edwen had come into his own. His face bore the sharp beauty of Elven blood, his voice carried steady authority, and his plans shaped the very bones of Rohan. The boy who once set kitchens ablaze for experiments had become the man who reforged a kingdom.
But though he stood straighter and spoke wiser, the playfulness in his amber eyes never dimmed.
The Riders said he could argue strategy with generals by morning, invent some new forge design by afternoon, and still spend his evening playing tricks on stablehands, laughing as if he were still that troublesome boy of old.
"He is the Golden Storm still," they said fondly, "only now he chooses where he strikes."
Thunder on the WallsEdwen's most daring innovation was thunder itself. Years of patient study and reckless accidents had birthed the first cannons.
The day he tested one before the Riders, the blast rolled like thunder across the plains. The target stone shattered into dust, and the air rang with cheers. Horses stamped nervously, men shouted in awe.
Edwen grinned, brushing soot from his face. "A bit loud, isn't it?" he quipped.
"A bit?" his mother muttered, holding her ears.
The people roared with laughter.
Muskets and ArchersThe Storm had not forgotten the bow. He introduced muskets, but trained the men to work with the archers, not replace them. Arrows flew swift and true, muskets thundered in volleys, smoke curling above the walls like a stormcloud.
During one drill, an archer boasted he could outshoot any musketeer. Edwen, amused, took up a musket himself. The first shot misfired with a pitiful puff of smoke. The men laughed until their sides hurt. Then Edwen fired again and split the target clean in half.
"Beginner's luck," he said with a wink, handing the musket back.
The story spread, and the Riders laughed every time it was told.
The Heir of Two FacesIn council, Edwen was the picture of maturity. He spoke of walls, healing, and order with wisdom beyond his years. Nobles bowed their heads when he entered, not only because of his title but because he had earned their respect.
Yet when meetings grew too heavy, he had a habit of slipping in mischief. Once, during a particularly dry debate, he conjured a small puff of smoke beneath the table with leftover powder. The council jumped, thinking a cannon had gone off inside the hall.
When the shock faded, Edwen raised his brows innocently. "Merely a demonstration, my lords. Shall we proceed?"
Even his mother tried and failed to keep a straight face.
The Shield and the StormThe Princess still scolded him, still sighed at his antics, but now her words were softer, her tone touched with pride.
"You have grown," she said one evening as they stood on the balcony, gazing over the torchlit city.
"And you still think I'm a handful," he replied with a grin.
"You always will be."
He chuckled, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "Would you love me less if I wasn't?"
She smiled despite herself. "Never."
And the people below looked up at them — the Shield and the Storm, mother and son — and their hearts swelled with affection.
Looking NorthRohan was strong, its halls filled with knowledge and thunder. Yet Edwen's gaze often drifted northward. He had built much, given much, but the world beyond Rohan called to him. The names of Rivendell and Lothlórien whispered in his thoughts, and though he laughed and smiled, a quiet yearning stirred in his heart.
The Golden Storm was maturing. And storms, when grown, do not remain in one sky forever.
In his twentieth year, Edwen had grown into the man Rohan had long whispered he would become. The mischievous boy was gone, replaced by a tall, broad-shouldered elf whose amber eyes still gleamed with mischief but now carried the calm weight of command. He was the Golden Storm in truth respected, admired, beloved.
It had been a year since his mother's marriage to Háldan, a match Edwen himself had sparked. To see her laugh again, truly laugh, filled him with a joy he hadn't realized he was missing. Háldan was no stranger to him steady, loyal, kind and Edwen had welcomed him as both friend and kin. Together they had become what the people called them: the Shield, the Rock, and the Storm.
Then came the child. A daughter, small and perfect, born beneath thunder and rain. When Edwen first held her, her tiny fingers curling around his own, memory struck him like a blade to the chest.
Not this child another. A boy with golden eyes and a trusting smile. Alphonse. His little brother. He remembered the laughter, the stubborn loyalty, the way Alphonse had followed him into every danger without hesitation. He remembered the years spent trying to undo the terrible mistake that had cost them everything. And, most of all, he remembered the end.
"I gave it all," he whispered before he could stop himself, staring at his baby sister's face.
That night, when the child was asleep and only the fire lit the hall, Edwen spoke at last. His mother and Háldan sat with him, watching the flames, when his voice broke the silence.
"There is something I have never told you. Something I have carried since the day I woke in this world." His hands tightened on his knees. "This isn't my first life. I lived before, in another world. I had a brother there. His name was Alphonse. He was… everything to me."
He paused, breath shaking.That night, when the child was asleep and only the fire lit the hall, Edwen spoke at last. His mother and Háldan sat with him, watching the flames, when his voice broke the silence.
"There is something I have never told you. Something I have carried since the day I woke in this world." His hands tightened on his knees. "This isn't my first life. I lived before, in another world. I had a brother there. His name was Alphonse. He was… everything to me."
He drew a shaking breath. "We lost our mother when we were still boys. We were desperate… too desperate. I thought I could bring her back. I thought I could defy death itself. But I was a fool. The price was unbearable. My brother lost his body. I lost an arm and a leg. That mistake haunted every step I took afterward."
His voice faltered, eyes stinging with tears. "I spent years fighting, searching, doing anything to undo what I had done. And at the very end… I succeeded. I gave him his body back. I gave him life. But the cost was my own. That was the last thing I knew seeing him stand whole again, knowing I would never see him again. And then… I woke here. Alive, but without him."
His gaze dropped to the floor, voice raw. "In that world, there was a law that ruled everything: Equivalent Exchange. To gain something, something of equal value must be lost. Every breath I took, every risk I made, was weighed on that scale. For years, I clawed and bled to undo my mistake. And at the very end… I succeeded. I gave Alphonse back his body, his life. But the cost was mine. That was the last thing I knew seeing him stand whole again, knowing I would never see him again. And then… I woke here. Alive, but alone."
The fire crackled in the silence that followed. His mother's hand reached for his cheek, her touch trembling but steady. Háldan's voice rumbled low, like a mountain beneath the earth.
But Edwen wasn't finished. He looked to them, eyes wet but burning with something stronger than grief. "That law Equivalent Exchange it still shapes how I see the world. And here, I understand something new." His voice softened. "I am an elf. I will outlive you. I will outlive her." His gaze flicked toward the cradle where his sister slept, wrapped in blankets. "One day, I will have to stand in this hall without you all. I know it. I accept it. But I will not fear it."
He swallowed hard, a sad smile touching his lips. "Because the truth is, Equivalent Exchange never accounted for love. Love gives without measure. Family gives more than it takes. Every moment with you with her is worth the pain of one day losing it. And I will cherish every heartbeat, every laugh, every storm and sunrise we share. I won't forget a single one of you. Not ever."
His mother's tears slipped free, but her smile was radiant as she whispered, "Oh, my son… you speak as one far older than your years."
Háldan's hand came down heavy on his shoulder, firm as stone. "And yet you love as one still young. That balance is what makes you strong."
For the first time in two lives, Edwen felt the weight of his past ease. He had told them everything his failure, his sacrifice, his truth. And still, he was theirs. Still, he was loved.
He looked once more at his sister's cradle, watching the rise and fall of her tiny breaths. And with the weight of memory pressing against the promise of the future, he whispered into the firelight:
"I lost my brother once. I won't fail again. Whatever storms come, I'll be ready. I'll protect this family… always."