The dawn broke like molten gold spilling across the hills. Mist coiled in the valleys, and the first light caught on the dew-soaked grass, turning the land into a field of stars. Kael walked alone through that glow, cloak drawn close against the chill. Each step carried him farther from Branthollow — and deeper into the legend that had called his name.
By midday, the hills gave way to forest — towering oaks and silver-leafed birches whispering secrets to the wind. Shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy, gilding the moss-covered roots beneath his feet. The world seemed to hum with unseen power. Every leaf, every shadow pulsed with life.
Kael could feel it now — that same strange current that had flickered in him during training. It stirred in his veins like a second heartbeat.
As he walked, a sound broke through the birdsong — metal striking metal.
He froze. Ahead, through the trees, came the clash of blades and the grunt of combat. He crept forward, staff ready, until the forest opened into a clearing.
Two figures fought there — a young woman and a man in black armor. Sparks leapt where their swords met. The woman's movements were lightning-fast, her silver hair flashing like a blade in itself. Yet her opponent pressed hard, his strikes heavy enough to crack the stones beneath their feet.
Kael's breath caught. He'd never seen swordplay like this. Every strike seemed to shake the air; the clang of steel rang like thunder through the forest.
The armored man swung low, aiming for her legs — she leapt, twisted midair, and kicked his helmet clean off. The blow sent him stumbling back, blood trickling from his temple.
But before she could strike again, he raised his hand — and black fire burst from his palm.
Kael didn't think. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He charged from the treeline, staff spinning.
"Behind you!"
The woman turned just as the shadow-flame roared toward her. Kael thrust his staff into the ground. For a heartbeat, he felt nothing — then a surge of power exploded outward. The earth cracked, a wall of light erupting between them and the attack. The black fire shattered against it like waves on stone.
The man staggered back, eyes wide. "Impossible—!"
Kael's staff flared again. He didn't know what he was doing — only that something inside him had awoken. He swung with both hands, and a gust of wind roared forth, flinging the armored man into a tree. The trunk splintered; birds scattered from the canopy in a thunder of wings.
For a moment, silence. Only Kael's ragged breathing filled the air.
The woman lowered her sword, staring at him in astonishment. Then she smiled — a fierce, bright smile that lit her face like dawn breaking through storm clouds.
"You just saved my life," she said. "And nearly tore the forest apart doing it."
Kael flushed, glancing at the cracked earth. "I—didn't mean to. It just… happened."
She sheathed her blade and extended a hand. "Then I'd say it happened at the perfect time. I'm Lyra of Kareth Vale."
Kael grasped her hand. "Kael. Of Branthollow."
Their eyes met — and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. A spark leapt between them, not of magic, but of something far older.
---
The Companion
They camped that night beside a stream. The fire cast amber light on Lyra's silver hair, turning it to molten white. She was older than Kael by a year or two, a warrior by bearing, yet her laughter was easy, her wit quick. She told him she had been traveling to the capital when she was ambushed by mercenaries sworn to the Dark Oath — worshippers of the shadow god Bakaalka.
"Their numbers are growing," she said, staring into the flames. "Something stirs in the east. The air itself tastes different. He's waking."
Kael poked at the fire with a stick, thoughtful. "Then the Skyblade truly did fall for a reason."
Lyra's eyes glinted. "You mean to seek it."
He nodded.
She studied him — not unkindly, but with a soldier's scrutiny. "You've power, that much I saw. But power without control is a fire that burns its wielder. If you truly wish to lift the Skyblade, you'll need more than courage."
"Then teach me," he said quietly. "Please."
Lyra smiled faintly. "We'll see if you survive the morning."
---
Trial by Fire
At dawn, she trained him by the stream. Every motion was deliberate, every blow precise. She moved like flowing water, her blade humming as it carved the air. Kael followed her lead, clumsy at first, then more fluid, learning to weave strength with rhythm.
When he faltered, she struck him lightly on the shoulder with the flat of her blade. "Too slow. Again."
They moved faster. The sound of steel and staff filled the glade. Sweat gleamed on Kael's brow; the muscles in his arms burned. Yet beneath the pain, there was exhilaration — a wild joy he had never known in the quiet fields of Branthollow.
"Better," Lyra murmured. "You're learning to feel the fight, not just move through it."
Then, without warning, she thrust forward. Kael barely deflected — their weapons locked, faces inches apart. Her breath brushed his cheek, her eyes fierce and bright.
For a moment, neither moved. The world shrank to the space between them — the quickened rhythm of breath, the tension, the pull.
Then she broke the lock, stepping back with a smirk. "You'll live."
He laughed breathlessly. "You didn't make it easy."
"I wasn't meant to."
---
That night, as the fire crackled and the forest whispered around them, Kael found himself watching Lyra's reflection in the water — the way the flames danced on her face, the quiet strength in her eyes. She caught him looking once, and her lips curved, soft and knowing.
"Careful, Kael," she said, her tone teasing but warm. "You stare at a warrior like that, and she might think you're challenging her again."
He grinned, half-shy, half-bold. "Then maybe I am."
Lyra laughed — low, musical, and dangerous — and for the first time, Kael thought that perhaps his journey would bring him not only toward destiny, but into the fire of something far more unpredictable.
---
The Awakening
That night, Kael dreamed.
He stood on a mountain of glass, the stars swirling like living flame above him. In his hands, a sword of light pulsed — the Skyblade. When he looked into its brilliance, he saw faces — Mira, his parents, Lyra, and beyond them, a shadow vast as night rising from the abyss.
A voice — the same voice he had heard the day the heavens tore open — spoke again.
"The light answers your call, Kael of Branthollow. But to wield it, you must master the flame within. For fire serves the one who commands it… and devours the one who fears it."
He reached out — the blade's light seared through him — and he woke, gasping, the campfire guttering low. His hands glowed faintly, veins traced with molten light before fading to normal.
Lyra stirred, hand on her sword. "Kael? What happened?"
He looked at his palms, still trembling. "I think… the Skyblade called to me."
---
The Road Ahead
By the next dawn, they were already moving east — toward the capital. The road wound through shadowed woods and sunlit meadows, through ruins half-swallowed by vines. Sometimes, Kael could feel eyes watching from the trees — whispers at the edge of hearing. The servants of Bakaalka were on the move.
But now he was not alone.
Beside him walked Lyra — sharp, fearless, and strangely radiant. With each day, his strength grew. With each night, the bond between them deepened — in shared laughter, quiet glances, and unspoken trust forged through danger.
And far to the east, in the shining towers of Aeloria, the Skyblade burned brighter — waiting for the one who would dare to claim it.