Morning in Elandor was a different kind of alive.
Not the life of clashing blades or roaring crowds, but of bakeries stirring warmth into the air, of students rushing down cobbled streets with books underarm, and of adventurers lounging in courtyards between missions — laughing, arguing, breathing.
Kael Fael walked those streets in silence, hands in his coat pockets, scarf tugged just enough to hide the tired edge in his eyes. His boots carried dust from the Emberlight Guild's training grounds, where he'd spent the past two hours perfecting a new motion — a sequence of strikes tied with a half-formed Lightning mantra. He was still getting used to the rhythm of it, letting the storm thread into his limbs.
But right now, he wasn't Kael the adventurer. Just Kael.
He turned a corner into a quieter lane of Elandor's mid-tier district — worn stone, ivy-choked balconies, little cafés barely wider than doorways. A small clinic waited at the end. The sign above the door was old, but the colors hadn't faded: "Ash & Thread — Healers by Hand and Heart."
Inside, Arlan was sitting up, coat draped over his legs, a mug of tea steaming in his lap. His hair was longer now, streaked with silver he didn't earn from age. Scars like cracks across a statue marked his arms — but the fire in his eyes was still intact.
"You're limping," Arlan said without looking.
Kael grinned. "It's called a combat strut."
"You've got a combat idiot's sense of pride."
"Now you sound like Mother."
"Mother would've hit you with a rolling pin and made you soup."
Kael laughed, letting the warmth settle between them.
They spoke for a while — about nonsense, mostly. A tavern brawl that erupted over card rules, a Warbrand who accidentally set fire to their own boots, a girl from the archives who refused to be called anything but "Lady Quill."
But beneath Arlan's easy tone was a weight. The older brother's eyes drifted too often. His hand clenched unconsciously every time Kael mentioned training.
"Storm, huh?" Arlan said finally.
"Yeah."
"You're not supposed to awaken that affinity so easily."
"I didn't. I… listened to it. It was already there, just not loud enough before."
Arlan didn't answer. Just looked at his mug and gave a slow nod.
⸻
By afternoon, Kael was back at the Emberlight Guild compound. The courtyard buzzed — training, chatter, Essence drills echoing against the stone. He didn't stop to talk. His focus was inward.
He moved to the back annex where the sparring circles were half-shadowed by old trees. His hands tightened around invisible threads of Essence, channeling Lightning — not as blasts, but as pulses through his limbs. Quickening his footwork. Sharpening the way he turned his shoulder, his palm, his breath.
He fought phantoms only he could see — combinations, counters, movements laced with precision and raw instinct.
Nearby, a few recruits watched. Whispered.
"He doesn't use staves?"
"Not anymore. Heard he's testing something different."
"Those are War Mage movements…"
Kael ignored them. Focused. Each strike sang with quiet voltage, building momentum. Not flashy. Just fast.
When his practice ended, sweat clung to him, but his breathing was steady. He smiled faintly.
The storm was listening.
⸻
That evening, he found himself in the old market lane — a place for stories more than supplies. Lanterns swayed above him, Essence-glass flickering with low light, casting warm shadows. He passed merchants selling trinkets, scroll fragments, charms claimed to be "from the Hollow Skies."
One booth caught his eye — small crystals shaped like teardrops, pulsing with faint glow. The seller, a man with one eye and a crooked grin, nodded at him.
"Feel familiar, lad?"
Kael touched one. The crystal pulsed. Faintly.
"Why does it do that?"
"Attunes to burden," the man said. "Only lights up for those carrying more than they let on."
Kael didn't answer. Just left a few coins and walked off, the faintly glowing crystal tucked in his hand.
⸻
That night, in his room above the Emberlight quarters, Kael sat by the window — arms on the sill, watching the stars. He didn't write in a journal. Didn't speak aloud. Just listened to the stillness.
The world was quiet again. But not the same kind of silence that swallowed his voice in Duskmoor Hollow.
This one was gentle. Lingering.
Below it, pressure coiled like a tide waiting to rise. Missions would come. Danger would return. The Varnok would always be out there.
But tonight, he was Kael.
Son. Brother. Dreamer.
And tomorrow, he'd fight again.