The dense forest swallowed them whole as Kael and Lysara plunged into its shadowed embrace. Moonlight bled through the canopy in fractured silver beams, illuminating the gnarled roots and twisted undergrowth that clawed at their legs. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, mingling with the metallic tang of Kael's own sweat.
He ran a hand through his dark, sweat-slicked hair, pushing it back from his face. His gray eyes—storm-colored, his father had once called them—scanned the darkness for movement. Every muscle in his lean, battle-hardened frame was coiled tight, ready to strike. The scars that crisscrossed his arms and torso ached faintly, as if remembering past wounds.
Lysara moved ahead of him, her lithe form weaving effortlessly between the trees. The moonlight caught the deep chestnut of her hair, turning it to burnished copper. She glanced back at him, her emerald eyes sharp with urgency.
"We're close," she whispered.
Kael clenched his jaw, the rusted coin in his pocket pressing against his thigh like a brand. *Close to what? Another trap? Another lie?*
But he followed anyway.
They emerged into a small clearing where a dilapidated hut stood, half-buried in ivy and time. The structure leaned precariously, as if the forest itself were trying to reclaim it. A single lantern flickered in the window, casting long, dancing shadows across the moss-covered ground.
Lysara approached the door, her fingers brushing the worn wood before pushing it open. The scent of dried herbs and aged parchment spilled out, mingling with the faint, acrid tang of gunpowder.
Kael hesitated at the threshold, his instincts screaming.
"Who lives here?" he demanded, his voice rough.
Lysara turned, her expression unreadable. "Someone who can help us."
Before he could protest, a voice rasped from the shadows inside.
"Took you long enough."
A figure stepped into the dim light—an old man, his face a map of wrinkles and scars, his white beard streaked with remnants of black. His piercing blue eyes locked onto Kael with unsettling intensity.
Kael's hand flew to his sword.
The old man smirked. "Still quick to draw, I see. Some things never change."
Kael's blood ran cold. *He knows me.*
Lysara placed a hand on his arm. "Kael, this is Eirik. He was… a friend of your father's."
Kael's grip on his sword tightened. "My father's friends are all dead."
Eirik chuckled, the sound like gravel grinding together. "Most of them, yes. But not me." He stepped closer, his gaze boring into Kael's. "Because I'm the one who betrayed him."
The words hit Kael like a blade to the gut.
His vision blurred red. In an instant, he had Eirik pinned against the wall, his forearm pressed into the old man's throat.
"You *what*?" he snarled.
Eirik didn't struggle. He simply stared back, his expression eerily calm.
"I sold him out to the Empire," he admitted, his voice steady. "And I've spent every day since trying to undo what I did."
Kael's breath came in ragged bursts. He wanted to kill him. He *should* kill him.
But Lysara's hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Kael, *listen*."
Eirik's gaze never wavered. "Your father knew the risks. He knew the Empire was coming for him. But he had a plan—one that involved *you*."
Kael's pulse roared in his ears. "What are you talking about?"
Eirik exhaled slowly. "The Stormblood legacy isn't just a myth. It's real. And the Empire wants it." He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, tattered journal. "Your father left this for you. It's the key to finding the first relic."
Kael released him, stepping back as if burned. His mind reeled. *A journal? A relic?*
Lysara took the book, her fingers tracing the faded crest on its cover—the sigil of House Aranthos.
"Stormhold," she murmured.
Eirik nodded. "The ruins are three days' ride from here. But the Empire's already searching for it."
Kael's fists clenched. "Why tell me this now?"
Eirik's expression darkened. "Because they have your sister."
The world tilted.
*Mira. Alive.*
And in the hands of the enemy.
The forest seemed to close in around them as they prepared to leave. Kael's mind raced, torn between fury and disbelief.
Eirik handed him a worn map, the edges frayed with age. "Follow the river north. There's a village at the edge of the Black Marsh—safe for now, but not for long."
Kael studied the markings, his chest tight. "And Mira?"
"She's being held at Ironhold Keep," Eirik said. "But if you go there now, you'll walk into a trap."
Lysara met Kael's gaze. "We need the relic first."
Kael exhaled sharply. Every instinct screamed at him to charge into Ironhold and tear it apart stone by stone. But he forced himself to think.
*Survive first. Fight later.*
He tucked the journal into his belt. "Then we ride at dawn."
Eirik clasped his shoulder. "One more thing." He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, silver pendant—a lightning bolt wrapped in thorns. "Your father's. He'd want you to have it."
Kael took it, the metal cold against his palm. For the first time in years, he felt the weight of his name.
*Kael Aranthos. Last of the Stormbloods.*
And the Empire would regret ever letting him live.