The throne chamber of the Fire Citadel shimmered with heat, flames twisting up the obsidian pillars like living serpents. Princess Kaelira stood firm beneath the flickering torches, her hands clasped behind her back, eyes locked on the one man who had ruled longer than either she or her brother had drawn breath.
The Fire Elder.
He sat upon the Throne of Embers, his ancient eyes half-lidded, as though the weight of the kingdom and time itself bore down upon him. Yet, when Kaelira spoke, his gaze sharpened.
"There are whispers," she said, "about strange movements in the outer reaches. Unaccounted soldiers. Hidden caravans. And my brother's absence, always conveniently timed."
The Fire Elder raised a brow. "You come bearing rumors, Kaelira. I expected more from you."
"I'm not here to accuse," she said carefully, though her voice was edged with steel. "I'm here because I know something's wrong."
The Elder studied her in silence, then slowly rose from his seat. His long robes, embroidered with flame-sigils older than most kingdoms, swept across the floor as he stepped down from the dais.
"You see shadows where there are none," he said. "Your brother is preparing the kingdom for the future. He bears the crown's burden, even as you... question his every step."
"I question because I care." Her voice trembled for a heartbeat. "He's not the same. He's... straying. And if I'm wrong—then prove it. Let me speak with him. Let me see where these supply lines lead."
"No," the Fire Elder said, sharply now. "The prince's matters are his own. And you, Kaelira, must learn to trust your kin."
Kaelira's expression darkened. "You know as well as I do that the Pure Flame chose me. Not him."
The silence that followed was heavier than any accusation.
The Fire Elder's lips pressed into a thin line. "That was a moment of divine mystery," he said softly. "One not meant to fracture bloodlines. Your brother carries the crown now. Whatever the flame whispered that day—he is still the ruling heir."
"But not the rightful one," Kaelira murmured.
The Elder turned away, retreating toward the throne.
"I have served three generations of your line," he said. "I will not be the one to burn it from within."
Kaelira stood there for a long moment, until the flames dimmed with her departure.
---
Far beneath the volcanic ridges, within a narrow, sulfur-choked tunnel…
The prince strode through curling steam, a cloak of deep crimson flowing behind him. His jaw was sharp, his stride confident—but not yet prideful. Not fully.
At the far end of the chamber, the Wolfkhan leaned against a jagged wall of rock, one clawed finger idly scratching marks into the stone. His mechanical arm twitched as the prince approached, but he said nothing.
"I've secured a new route," the prince said. "The southern trade path. No inspections. No interference."
Wolfkhan snorted, barely glancing at him. "And what did that cost you?"
"Nothing I wasn't willing to give," the prince replied. "The Fire Elder still thinks I'm following orders. And Kaelira... well, she's still asking questions."
The beast's golden eyes flicked toward him now, unreadable.
"You speak like a man who owns the flame," Wolfkhan said.
The prince smirked faintly. "Not yet."
There was a beat of silence. The prince began to pace slightly, fingers brushing the edges of his sash.
"Soon, all the kingdom will see that I'm the one shaping its future. Not the historians. Not the old men on their thrones. And certainly not—"
He caught himself. The arrogance had nearly risen too far. He cleared his throat.
"Anyway. You'll get what you want. And so will I."
Wolfkhan chuckled, low and growling.
"Let the boy wear his future like a crown," he thought. "Soon enough, I'll tear it from his skull."
---
Meanwhile, far from flame and shadow, atop the breezy cliffs of the old temple…
Neil stepped cautiously through the crumbled entryway. The stone felt ancient beneath his boots, weathered by time and wind. Runes whispered along the floor, glowing faintly as if stirred by their presence.
The Whispering Temple.
Before them rose a hall of murals carved into arched walls, each one catching the wind and dancing with motes of invisible energy. They depicted a towering figure cloaked in streams of air—his limbs woven from clouds and lightning, his face always hidden, always moving.
The Divine Master of Wind.
Zephyra walked slowly, reverently. The bow across her back hummed quietly, like a string drawn in anticipation. She stopped at one mural in particular—a great spiral of wind circling a woman kneeling in a grove. Above her floated a bow made of wind and light.
Zephyra unslung her own bow.
As it crossed into the center of the chamber, the runes on the floor flared softly. A sudden gust rushed inward. And then—
The bow began to glow.
A pale, sapphire sheen rippled along its limbs, faint as moonlight but undeniably present.
Neil took a step back, eyes wide. "Is it… reacting?"
Zephyra didn't answer. She knelt down, pressing the bow to the floor, eyes closed. The wind around her seemed to still, the leaves outside quieting. The entire temple held its breath.
And then—
Silence.
The glow faded.
The moment passed.
Zephyra opened her eyes slowly. "I thought maybe… he'd speak. Like the stories said."
Neil stepped closer, his voice soft. "Maybe this was just the first step."
She nodded, though her brows furrowed. "Maybe."
But deep inside, she couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—had stirred… and chosen not to answer.
---
The Tribute Collector sat alone beneath the broken arch of a ruined watchtower, the dying light of the day painting his worn armor in amber hues. In his hand, a dull black sphere of darkness floated idly—his only companion. It pulsed with every breath, moving as if alive, as if mocking him.
Once, he had believed the world would kneel before him.
He had walked the halls of the Shaded Academy with those who now stood as Masters… one of them even a Highmaster. They used to be equals—no, he had outpaced them in aura control once. But when the final trials came, his techniques faltered. His resolve cracked. He couldn't complete his Master Technique.
While his peers ascended into glory, he was cast aside—shuffled into the ranks of the mundane. A debt collector. A tribute enforcer.
A servant of power instead of its wielder.
Now, as he sat watching the rippling horizon, he clenched his fists. There was lightning, he reminded himself. Real lightning. Impossible. Extinct. But I saw it.
If he could learn the trick—if he could unravel the mystery of that boy—then maybe… maybe they'd see. Maybe they'd understand he was meant for more. A promotion. A title. A seat in the Court of Masters. Perhaps even… Grandmaster, whispered a dangerous voice inside.
He grinned, shadows swirling tighter around him.
---
Neil and Zephyra sat near the central altar, the fading wind brushing against their skin like a restless spirit. The failed communion still hung heavy in the air.
Zephyra stared at the ground, her hands resting on her knees. "I don't understand," she whispered. "The bow reacted. The glow… it started. But then—nothing."
Neil was quiet for a moment, then spoke without looking at her. "My master once said... divinity doesn't answer those who reach with their pride. Only those who reach with their soul."
Zephyra frowned. "You think I was proud?"
"I think…" Neil turned to her. "You were afraid. Maybe trying to prove something instead of truly connecting."
Her eyes darted away.
Neil held out his hand. "Let me try."
She hesitated, then passed the bow to him. The moment his fingers closed around it, a low hum resonated from the relic.
He stepped into the center of the runes, closed his eyes, and breathed.
"From within, not above," his master's voice echoed. "Divinity answers those who carry the breath of the world in their soul—not those who demand its voice."
Neil's chest rose as he let go of every thought.
And then—
Light.
A blinding radiance surged through the bow, its limbs glowing with furious sapphire energy. The runes exploded with brilliance. The wind roared into the temple with the force of a storm unleashed.
Zephyra shielded her eyes as the entire chamber began to tremble. Dust lifted into spirals. Columns creaked. The murals glowed.
Then came the gust.
A cyclone of wind engulfed both of them, lifting them off the ground. Neil's eyes, glowing white, stared into the eye of the storm. He could feel something watching. Not quite a presence, not yet a voice—but aware.
And it was aware of him.
---
Kaelira stormed through the palace halls, her steps echoing in the empty corridors. She had waited long enough. Her brother had refused to respond to her letters. If the Fire Elder wouldn't act, she would.
She found him alone in the solar chamber, gazing out toward the setting sun. He turned when she entered, surprise painted delicately across his face.
"Sister?" he said gently. "What's wrong?"
"Don't play games," Kaelira snapped. "I know about the hidden meetings. The trade caravans. I know about the Wolfkhan."
The prince blinked, taking a step back as if wounded. "The Wolfkhan? You think I knew what he was? That I brought him in with open arms?"
She hesitated.
"I was trying to build allies," he said, voice trembling. "People said he changed. I—I thought maybe he could be used, reformed even. But if what you're saying is true—if he's dangerous—I need to stop this."
His acting was impeccable. He even reached for her hand.
"Give me a moment," he said. "Let me show you something. Proof that I was misled. I'll be right back."
She watched him leave, her eyes narrow, suspicion still clinging to her like smoke.
And then—
A shadow shifted behind her.
Kaelira turned, but it was too late. A clawed hand closed around her mouth, and before she could scream, the world turned dark.
Wolfkhan's heavy breath curled against her ear.
"I'm not going to kill you, little flame," he growled. "You're worth so much more… alive."
---
Time stilled.
The wind surged in a cyclone around Neil and Zephyra, but nothing else moved—not the grass outside the temple, not the leaves hanging in the windows, not even their breath. The column of light surrounding them had become translucent now, forming a dome of calm at its center.
And from that light stepped a figure.
He did not walk—he floated, borne aloft by currents of invisible force. His robes shimmered like woven cloudstuff, their edges constantly fluttering as if caught in a breeze that never touched anything else. Feathers drifted from his sleeves as he approached, vanishing before they touched the floor. His hair, long and silver like lightning's reflection, danced in the air behind him, and his eyes were a wind-stirred sky: pale, shifting, full of endless movement.
He was ageless. Ethereal. Impossible.
The Divine Master of Wind.
Zephyra dropped to her knees before him instinctively, overcome by reverence. But the Divine Master simply raised a hand, and a gentle gust lifted her back to her feet.
"You carry my gift, child of the Galehorn," he said, his voice both distant and close, a thousand breezes converging into words. "You have journeyed far, and you have not forgotten the sky. I welcome you, daughter of wind."
Zephyra's lips trembled. "You... you know me?"
"I know all my children. Even those who doubt themselves."
His gaze shifted to Neil, and something changed in the air. It grew stiller. Deeper.
"And you," he said, eyes narrowing. "The last son of the Sparkling Kingdom... and an old friend."
Neil blinked. "Wait—what?"
The Divine Master smiled softly. "Strange, isn't it? The more I stand near you, the more it feels as though I am speaking to a fellow Windcaster."
Neil shook his head. "But I'm not. I'm... I was told I was Lightning. I've always used lightning."
"Lightning," the Divine Master murmured, "is but a shape the wind wears when angered." He stepped closer, his feet never touching the ground. "And yet... you are more than either. You do not know what you are yet. But I do."
Neil frowned. "Then tell me. Why can I see you? Why can we speak?"
"Because you have been touched by divinity, Neil," the Divine Master said. "You bear what is known as a Divine Brand."
Neil took a step back. "A... Divine Brand?"
"It is not something one acquires by will or training. It is something... given. Bestowed. Sometimes unknowingly. A mark not on your skin, but on your essence."
"What does it mean?"
The Divine Master's smile faded slightly. "That is difficult to explain. And better shown. In time, you will understand."
Zephyra glanced between them, clearly overwhelmed. "So... what now?"
The Divine Master turned, gazing outward as though looking far beyond the temple walls.
"Now, the storm begins."
He lifted a hand, and wind coiled around it like a snake made of air.
"There is great turmoil in the realm, Neil. You must understand the winds, not just feel them. You must read them. For they carry secrets only you can hear."
Neil straightened. "What do I have to do?"
"There is a flame in danger. A soul defiant. The Princess of the Burning Kingdom. She has been taken. You must go to her."
Neil's brows drew together. "How will I know it's her?"
"You will." The Divine Master's voice left no room for doubt. "Her soul burns too brightly to go unseen."
He stepped back, letting the wind spiral slowly around him again. "And you will not be alone. There are others—companions—who will join you. They may come to you as enemies. They may greet you with doubt. But trust them. They are all part of what's to come."
Neil nodded slowly. "I understand."
"No," the Divine Master said, eyes glowing, "but you will."
He raised both arms, and the wind surged again, wrapping around Neil like a second skin. Zephyra, eyes wide, was lifted into the air with him, protected within a glowing gust.
"Now," said the Divine Master, "let me show you the power of the Divine Brand."
With a flash of silver light, he entered Neil's body.
The transformation was instant. Neil's eyes turned white, glowing like polished skies. His stance straightened, elevated. His aura expanded so vastly that Zephyra could feel it brushing the walls of the temple.
The Divine Master's voice now spoke through Neil's lips:
"Come, daughter of wind. The one who collects debts waits for us."
And with a clap of thunder and a rush of air, they vanished—leaving only a single feather behind, caught in the breeze.