The door closed behind Kaelen with a sigh, and the warmth of the garden vanished like a dream upon waking.
He was in a vast hall now—open to a sky that churned with clouds the color of bruised steel. Lightning forked silently through the heavens above, and wind howled through ancient pillars. Each step forward echoed like thunder in the distance.
The Trial had begun.
He was no longer alone.
A storm gathered at the edge of the horizon—black and seething. From it came a figure, cloaked in robes that shimmered with the hue of rain-drenched stone. A mask of silver obscured their face, but Kaelen could feel the force of the being's gaze.
"You carry the blade," the figure said, voice layered with power. "You've passed the garden and faced the first truth. Now, face the storm you were born to calm… or be consumed by it."
Kaelen gripped the Midnight Blade. "Who are you?"
The figure raised a hand. Lightning struck the ground between them—no heat, no sound, just light and clarity. When Kaelen blinked, the figure had stepped forward, and the winds screamed louder.
"I am the Herald of Storms. The one who remembers what the world tried to forget. The one your bloodline betrayed."
Kaelen braced himself as the Herald raised their arms. Clouds spiraled above, faster, angrier. A circle of wind spun around the Midnight Blade, tugging at its hilt, testing his grip.
"The blade was never forged for peace," the Herald continued. "It was a warning. And now, the storm returns… to see if you are worthy of wielding it."
Kaelen lowered into a stance, grounding himself. "Then test me."
The Herald didn't attack. Instead, they thrust a spear of pure wind into the sky—and from it descended illusions, each sharp and real: a burning village, a brother's scream, a crown cracked in two, Elira's hand slick with blood.
"You must see clearly through the chaos," the Herald said. "Each storm hides a truth. Each truth cuts deeper than any blade."
Kaelen's breath came heavy, but he held the visions in his mind. Not to fear them—but to understand them. Slowly, he stepped through each illusion, whispering:
"That is not my future… unless I allow it."
The illusions shattered. The wind stilled. The Herald paused.
"So… you choose clarity over wrath. The mark of a true heir."
Then the mask cracked.
Behind it, Kaelen saw not a face—but a storm contained in human form. Lightning eyes. A mouth of wind. A soul older than the kingdoms themselves.
"Then hear this, child of ash and crown," the Herald whispered, their voice now soft and solemn. "The Veiled stir in the East not to conquer, but to reclaim what your ancestors stole. The storm you fear is not coming—it is already here. And you are its lightning rod."
The Midnight Blade pulsed. Kaelen dropped to one knee, the wind gone still around him.
"You have passed," the Herald said.
And then… the storm vanished.
Kaelen stood alone again—but the sky above was clear, and the path ahead was lit with fire.
At its end stood a gate of black stone and crimson runes.
Beyond it: the Trial's final truth.
And waiting in the shadows, unseen by Kaelen, a cloaked figure touched a dagger still slick with recent blood.
"He's coming," the figure whispered. "Let the council know. The storm chooses him… but we are the flood."