Heavy cloak that refused to lift. Days blended into weeks, weeks turned into months. The snow never stopped falling for long. Some mornings, it came as soft flakes that muffled every sound; other days, it drove sideways in fierce gusts that stung the eyes and piled drifts higher than a man. The temperature dropped lower with each passing cycle, until even breathing felt like swallowing broken glass.
Kael made a kind of home at the foot of the Needle Spire. He dug a shallow cave into the leeward side of a nearby ridge, lined the floor with wendigo furs, and reinforced the entrance with packed snow blocks. A small vent hole let smoke escape from his fire pit. It was crude, drafty, and cold, but it was shelter. He hunted when the weather allowed, tracking frost beasts across the plains. Their meat kept him strong; their hides kept him warm. He learned the rhythm of the storms: the low rumble that warned of coming lightning, the sudden stillness before the worst blasts.
Every day that the sky darkened enough, he climbed the spire. The ascent became familiar. He knew every crack and every icy patch that shifted underfoot. Some days, the wind made it impossible, so he waited patiently below. Other days, the storm arrived just as he reached the summit, as if the sky itself acknowledged his return.
He sat in the center of the flat stone platform with his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees. And he waited for the lightning. It came in waves now—stronger and more frequent. The thin current inside him grew steadily, threading deeper into the scarred channels of his Storm bloodline. It was still far from the roaring power of his youth, but it answered when he called. Small bolts he could summon on clear nights to start his fire. A faint crackle that warmed his skin against the worst cold.
The pain never lessened. Each strike burned. Each recovery left him shaking. But pain had become an old companion. Nights in the shelter were for rest and reflection.
He sat by the small fire one evening, sharpening his iron sword with a whetstone taken from a dead miner's pack long ago. The scrape of stone on metal was the only sound. Meanwhile, far to the south...
Elara Voss rode at the head of her squad through a snow-dusted forest east of Eldren Citadel. The mid-tier Breach they had come to seal was already closed, thanks to her team's efficient work. No losses this time.
She reined in her mount, letting the others move ahead. The wind carried the scent of pine and distant smoke from a village. After five years of these patrols and small victories, they kept the people safe, but it never felt like enough.
A young recruit rode back to her. "Captain, the village elder offers hot food and beds for the night." Elara forced a smile. "Accept. The squad deserves rest."
As the recruit left, she dismounted and walked a few paces into the trees. Snow crunched under her boots. She pulled the lightning-bolt pendant from beneath her armor and turned it over in her gloved fingers. "Wherever you are," she murmured, "I hope the cold isn't too cruel."
She did not cry. She had stopped crying years ago. But the ache remained, steady and quiet.
Back in the Wastes...
Kael's memories came most clearly during the long nights. He remembered leading his first major raid as commander of the Crimson Legion. Eighteen years old, barely a year after his tournament victory. A high-tier Breach near the western border. Three hundred warriors under his command. He stood before them at dawn, Tempest Reaver raised high.
"Today we show the Abyss what humanity is made of," he declared. His voice carried on the wind, amplified by aura. The soldiers cheered, eyes bright with faith in their young leader.
The battle was perfect. His strategies were flawless. He struck from the sky like living lightning, shattering the Breach core in a single coordinated assault. Not one life lost. When they returned to Eldren, the streets filled with people throwing flowers. He rode at the front, Elara at his side, both covered in dust and glory.
That night, the celebration lasted until dawn. He remembered Elara pulling him away from the crowds and into a quiet garden. "You did it," she said, eyes shining. "A perfect victory."
He grinned and pulled her close. "Told you I would." She rested her head against his chest. "I'm proud of you, Kael. But promise me you'll never stop being careful. Power like yours can make you feel alone at the top."
He kissed her forehead. "Never alone. Not while I have you."
The fire popped, bringing him back. Kael stared at the flames until they burned low. The shelter felt smaller tonight. The Storm bloodline had reached what he guessed was mid-Iron rank—enough to call real bolts now and enough to quicken his steps in battle. But the Wastes were giving less each week. The storms felt familiar, almost routine. He needed more.
One clear morning, after a night with no lightning, Kael stood outside his shelter and looked south. The Void Scar waited beyond the horizon—the crater where everything had ended. Darker trials. Deeper pain. But perhaps deeper growth.
He spent the day preparing by drying extra meat, repairing his cloak, and sharpening his sword until it gleamed. That evening, as snow began to fall again, he sat by the fire one last time in this place. The spark inside him now hummed quietly.
It's time, he thought. He did not look back at the Needle Spire as he left the next morning. The North had given him back his Storm and had taught him patience. The Void would teach him something else.
Far south, Elara stood on the citadel wall again, watching the same snow fall. She did not know that the man she remembered was moving again, southward, step by step, carrying a spark that might one day light the world. But she felt the wind shift just a little, and for the first time in years, she allowed herself a small, quiet hope.