The celebration in Virestead raged deep into the night. Fires blazed in the village square, casting warm light against the cold hush of the surrounding woods. Laughter and song echoed among the simple homes, a moment of joy hard-won after weeks of fear and death.
Kael sat on the outskirts, watching the festivities from a quiet perch atop a crumbled stone wall. The weight of the glass bottle containing the Dragon King's blood pressed against his side, its presence an ever-present reminder that tonight's peace was only a fragile illusion.
Rynn had offered to stand watch, but Kael had insisted he be alone, if only for a while. He needed time to think. To feel.
The air was sharp and cold, but he barely noticed. His senses were tuned too finely, every sound amplified, every flicker of movement magnified. His blood thrummed, not from adrenaline, but from something deeper—an ancient resonance stirring within him.
Then the feeling hit.
A ripple, like a pebble thrown into the smooth surface of a pond, disturbing the balance of the night.
Kael's hand immediately went to Veyrion's hilt. He rose to his feet, scanning the darkness beyond the firelight.
The first assassin struck without warning.
A figure cloaked in shadows lunged from the treeline, blades gleaming in the moonlight. Kael moved instinctively, his body flowing like water, fueled by Time Dilation. The world slowed to a crawl around him. He sidestepped the blade, pivoted, and brought Veyrion up in a swift, brutal arc.
The assassin crumpled without a sound, dissolving into mist before his body could hit the ground.
Kael's heart pounded once, twice—then steadied. Another ripple, another presence.
He dropped into a low stance, eyes narrowing.
Three more emerged, moving in perfect synchronization. They wore no colors, no emblems—only black cloth and deadlier intent.
Kael activated Shadowstep, blinking through space as their weapons clashed into the stone where he had stood moments before. He reappeared behind the nearest attacker and struck cleanly, Veyrion's edge whispering through cloth and bone alike.
Regen pulsed within him, sealing minor cuts before they could even bleed, letting him focus entirely on the fight.
One of the assassins hissed in a language foreign and sharp.
Kael's Auto-Translation skill kicked in immediately, converting the garbled speech into clarity:
"The Heir must die! Before the blood chooses him fully!"
Kael's stomach twisted. They knew.
They knew what he carried.
The third assassin leapt high, daggers spinning like twin comets.
Kael called upon Elemental Affinity: Lightning.
Electricity danced along his limbs, surging into Veyrion. His sword hummed with barely contained energy as he thrust upward, a bolt of lightning spearing the assassin out of the sky.
The remaining attacker hesitated. A mistake.
Kael dashed forward, faster than a blink, and ended it.
The village was still unaware—the music and shouting drowning out the sounds of the skirmish.
Kael stood alone among the fallen, breathing hard, blood—both his and theirs—sizzling on the ground where lightning had scorched it.
Then he heard it.
A faint cracking noise. Not from the woods. From the bottle at his side.
Kael yanked it free, holding it up.
The glass was fracturing, spiderweb veins creeping across its surface as the blood inside boiled and churned, no longer dormant.
A voice—no, not a voice, a presence—filled his mind.
"Prove yourself, Heir. Ignite the blood."
Kael staggered as the bottle shattered in his hands, and the blood within—alive, conscious—lunged into him.
He screamed, a raw, animal sound, as power unlike anything he had ever known tore through his veins.
Lightning burst from his body in wild arcs, searing the ground, splitting the night. The trees bowed away from him as if in worship—or fear.
The Dragon King's blood fused with his own, burning away weakness, carving new paths of strength into his soul.
In that moment, Kael saw himself not as he was, but as he could become—clad in storm-forged armor, wings of lightning unfurling from his back, eyes alight with ancient fury.
The vision faded, leaving him kneeling in the dirt, smoke rising from his skin, his breath ragged.
But he was not broken.
He was more.
A sound behind him—footsteps.
Rynn burst through the trees, eyes wide with terror and awe.
"Kael—what—?"
He rose slowly, feeling the new power settle inside him like a sleeping dragon.
"They came for the blood," he said hoarsely. "But it's mine now."
Rynn took a cautious step closer, her gaze flicking to the smoldering corpses.
"Are you... you?"
Kael flexed his fingers. Sparks danced across his knuckles. A grin—half relief, half something fiercer—pulled at his lips.
"I think I'm more."
From the village, new sounds rose—alarm bells, shouting. Others had noticed the lightning storm.
Kael sheathed Veyrion, feeling the blade resonate in approval.
"This was just the beginning," he said, turning back toward the village. "Others will come. Stronger ones."
Rynn nodded grimly. "Then we get stronger too."
They walked back together, side by side, into the awakening world.
Above them, the stars burned brighter than before.
And somewhere, in distant halls of power, beings older than time took notice.
The Heir had ignited the blood.
The storm had truly begun.