The morning storm gathered like a beast roaring over the jagged peaks, its rumble echoing through the valley long before the first drops of rain touched the stone. Kaelen stood barefoot on the training courtyard, a square of smoothed rock chiseled into the mountainside centuries ago, his katana held tightly in both hands. The scar down his right shoulder and arm pulsed with light, faint as a heartbeat, waiting.
His master stood across from him.
Ordon looked like nothing more than a tired old man: bent shoulders, white hair tied loosely at the nape, his staff worn smooth from decades of use. Yet when he planted his feet, the earth itself seemed to hold still, as though the mountain deferred to him. His eyes—gray, storm-colored, sharp—never left Kaelen's.
"Again," Ordon said, voice low as thunder.
Kaelen charged. The katana sparked to life in his hands, streaks of pale blue lightning crawling across the steel. His boots scraped stone as he cut upward, the blade singing through the air.
The staff intercepted it with a crack like a tree splitting in half. Sparks danced around Ordon's body, brushing against his cloak. He didn't move, didn't flinch, just leaned into the boy's strength until Kaelen's arms shook.
"Too forceful," Ordon said. "Power without balance is nothing."
Kaelen roared and twisted, trying to press the advantage. Lightning leapt from his blade to the stones, burning tiny scars into the mountain. He drove Ordon back a single step—then two—until the old man's expression flickered, and for a heartbeat, Kaelen thought he might finally win.
Ordon moved like a shadow. A pivot, a sweep of his staff, and Kaelen's legs were gone from under him. He hit the ground with a thud, his katana skittering out of reach. The scar along his arm flared white-hot, pain shooting through his shoulder as though the storm had struck him all over again.
"Patience," Ordon said, lowering his staff. "Stand. You will not rise until you learn it."
Kaelen groaned, dragging himself upright. He reached for his sword, its blade humming faintly, pulsing like it shared his frustration. "You'll be patient when someone's cutting at you, old man?" he muttered.
Ordon smirked faintly—the closest thing to praise Kaelen would get. "Perhaps you'll live long enough to understand."
And so they continued. Strike. Counter. Fall. Rise. Hours passed, and the storm above them never broke, only circled, as though watching their struggle.
By noon, Kaelen limped through the winding paths of Drastmere.
The mountain town was carved into the cliffs themselves, stacked levels of stone houses linked by rope bridges and narrow stairways. Iron-bell towers clanged in the wind, and broken clockwork relics—gears taller than men, wheels half-buried in rock—jutted like bones from the mountainside, left over from some forgotten age.
Kaelen was used to the stares. Children peeked from behind doorways, whispering to each other. Older folk fell silent when he passed, eyes lingering on the scar glowing faintly down his arm.
"The storm child," someone hissed behind him.
"…curse upon us, he is."
"No—blessing. Did you see how he wields the blade? A protector, born of lightning."
"A protector who brings storms. Remember the Skyfire."
The voices cut deep, no matter how many times he heard them. Some days, he was a savior. Other days, a curse waiting to happen. He had learned not to argue. Ordon's presence in the village kept their fear from turning into something worse, but Kaelen knew the balance was fragile.
At the smithy, the clang of hammer on metal rang sharp. Rima, the blacksmith's daughter, straightened as he entered. Sweat plastered her hair to her brow, and she smiled despite herself.
"Training again?" she asked. "You'll work yourself into an early grave, Kaelen."
He tried to grin, though his ribs ached. "Better the grave than cowardice."
She laughed, but her eyes flickered to his scar, glowing faintly in the forge light. Her expression shifted—curiosity, then unease. She quickly turned back to her work, hammering harder than necessary.
Kaelen said nothing. He was used to that, too.
That night, Ordon sat alone in his cabin at the edge of the village. A single candle lit the small room, but shadows clung thick in the corners. The old man's face was still, yet for an instant the firelight bent strangely, reshaping his features into someone younger, regal, cruel. The image flickered and was gone, replaced once more by the weary face of age.
He traced symbols in the air with a trembling hand. Each sigil flared with blue fire, hovered, then dissolved into sparks.
"The shard burns too bright in him already," Ordon whispered. "Too soon. Too strong. If he cannot master it, the darkness will claim him."
The flame in the hearth leapt higher, as if the mountain itself had heard, then died down to embers. Ordon closed his eyes and, for the first time in years, looked afraid.
Kaelen sat on the cliffs above the town, Voltari across his lap. The katana, forged from ore found deep in the mountain ruins, glowed faintly as if alive. Lightning crawled along the blade, in rhythm with his scar.
He stared out across the valley, where the storm rolled endlessly over jagged peaks. The wind tore at his hair and cloak, carrying whispers he couldn't quite catch.
"Why me?" His voice broke against the roar of the wind. He clenched his hand into a fist, scar burning. "Why did it choose me?"
The stars above glittered coldly, offering no answer.
But Kaelen was not alone.
A shimmer stirred at the edge of the cliff, faint as moonlight on water. A figure lingered—no, not quite a figure, but a presence. Not enemy, not friend. Watching. Waiting.
And though Kaelen felt nothing, somewhere deep in his bones, the world seemed to hold its breath.