Valryke Isle smelled of pine, iron, and old blood.
Kaelan stepped onto the black sand, boots sinking slightly. Behind him, Shadow's Maw turned back toward the mainland. Ahead, ruins clawed at the sky—crumbling towers, shattered statues of riders astride dragons long gone.
Lord Ryn led him through the forest in silence. No birds sang. Even the wind held its breath.
At dusk, they reached a stone courtyard, half-swallowed by frost. In its center stood two wooden posts, crossed swords embedded in ice.
"This is where heirs of Frostveil are forged," Ryn said. He tossed Kaelan a wooden practice sword. "Your first test."
Kaelan gripped it awkwardly. Too heavy. Too long.
Ryn drew his own—a real blade, steel glinting in the dying light.
"Rules are simple," he said. "Touch me once, and you earn dinner. Fail…" He shrugged. "You'll learn hunger."
Kaelan swallowed. "What if I hurt you?"
A ghost of a smile. "You won't."
The duel began.
Kaelan lunged.
Ryn sidestepped. A flick of his wrist—Kaelan's sword flew into the snow.
Before the boy could react, the flat of Ryn's blade cracked against his ribs.
He gasped, fell to one knee.
"Again," Ryn said.
Kaelan scrambled up. Swung wildly.
Clang. Disarmed.
Thwack. Struck in the shoulder.
Crack. Knee buckled.
Ten times. Twenty. Blood trickled from his lip. His hands shook. But he kept rising.
On the thirty-seventh attempt, something changed.
He stopped swinging. Stopped thinking.
He watched.
Ryn's stance. The shift in his weight. The micro-tension in his forearm before a strike.
Kaelan dodged. Not by luck—but by instinct.
Ryn's eyes narrowed. "Good."
He pressed harder. Faster.
But Kaelan moved like water—slipping, weaving, retreating just enough.
Then—opportunity.
Ryn overextended.
Kaelan darted forward, tapped the wooden tip against Ryn's chest.
Silence.
Ryn looked down at the mark. Then back at the boy, breathing hard, bleeding, but standing.
"You earned your meal," he said.
That night, Kaelan ate in silence. His body screamed. But his mind burned with clarity.
After dinner, Ryn led him deeper into the ruins.
They stopped before a collapsed archway, half-buried in snow.
"Dig," Ryn ordered.
Kaelan dug with numb fingers. Ice cut his skin. Still, he dug.
Until his hand struck something smooth. Cold. Curved.
He pulled it free—a cracked eggshell, larger than his head, shimmering with faint blue light.
"This," Ryn said softly, "is why you're here."
Kaelan reached out. Touched it.
And then—he heard it.
Not with his ears.
But in his bones.
A voice, ancient and weary:
"…took you long enough."
Kaelan didn't flinch. He wrapped the egg in his cloak, cradling it like a brother.
Ryn watched. For the first time, something like hope flickered in his eyes.
"Tomorrow," he said, "we begin again. But now… you fight not just for survival."
"For what?"
"For him."
Kaelan looked down at the egg. Felt the pulse beneath his palm.
Far away, on a cursed island, shadows stirred.
But here, in the snow, a new pact was born.
Not between man and beast.
But between two souls who refused to be broken.