Kaelen had never stood in a place so polished, so pristine, and felt so filthy.
He trailed behind the king's personal guard as they marched through the marble halls of Velmire Palace, thunder still whispering beneath his skin. His wrists were singed from restraint bands that had cracked under his power earlier. Even now, servants gawked from the corners of their eyes, as if unsure whether to bow or run.
Let them wonder, Kaelen thought bitterly. Let them fear me. It's better than pity.
Behind him, his siblings followed like thunderclouds—each wrapped in their element and pride.
Seris stalked like fire incarnate, red velvet gown sweeping the floor, golden eyes locked ahead, sharp as blades. Aedric moved with cool calculation, the air around him subtly chilled, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Zevien trailed last, his stride easy, expression unreadable, cloak billowing slightly in the draft like the wind followed him.
Only the king walked before them all.
Kaelen had expected the throne room to be grand. He hadn't expected it to feel like judgment.
The high ceilings arched like cathedral wings, lined with stained-glass windows of ancient battles—each monarch immortalized in either fire, frost, or flame. The storm had no place among them.
And yet, Kaelen stood there, trembling with something between defiance and awe.
The king sat on his throne of obsidian and carved steel, his presence heavy with wear and wisdom. Queen Iselyn stood to his left, her expression like untouched ice.
"Kaelen of Stormmere," the king said at last, his voice filling the chamber, "once lost. Now found."
A murmur passed through the chamber. The nobles, lining the edges like vultures, whispered behind jeweled hands.
Kaelen lifted his chin.
"I didn't ask to be found."
"No. But you burned down a shop in the capital," the king said, rising. "With thunder magic. Do you deny it?"
"No."
Gasps. A clatter as a noble dropped her fan.
The king stepped down from the dais. "Then I ask you: Who taught you to use the storm?"
Kaelen hesitated. "No one. It was... always there. I tried to hide it. Tried to control it."
"Did you know who you were?"
Kaelen met the king's gaze.
"No. I was a thief. A runner. A shadow. I thought I was just fast."
"Until you weren't."
Kaelen nodded. "Until the storm came when I didn't want it to."
The king studied him in silence, then turned to the room. "He is mine. My blood. That cannot be denied. But blood alone does not make a prince."
The words fell heavy.
Seris stepped forward, her voice sharp. "Father, with respect, he cannot be trusted. He's unstable—he nearly leveled a block of the capital!"
"He did what you couldn't," Zevien said, shrugging. "Saved the crown's life."
Seris snapped her head toward him.
"He was lucky."
Aedric stepped between them. "Enough. This is not the place."
But his eyes, cold and precise, never left Kaelen.
The king raised a hand.
"Kaelen will remain within the palace walls. You will train under the Magister. You will be tested—physically, magically, politically. You will prove if you are fit to wear this crest again."
"And if I'm not?" Kaelen asked.
"Then the storm dies with you," the queen said, her voice like frost cracking underfoot.
Later that Night
Kaelen sat alone in a chamber too large for someone raised in gutters. The walls were lined with books he couldn't read, and the bed felt more like a coffin with silk sheets.
He stared out the window, watching lightning crawl silently through clouds in the distance.
"You're awake."
Kaelen turned sharply. Zevien leaned in the doorway, uninvited.
"You have a habit of sneaking," Kaelen said.
"And you have a habit of exploding."
Zevien smirked and tossed something to him—a dagger. Kaelen caught it by reflex.
"Gift," Zevien said. "From a fellow troublemaker."
"Thanks?"
Zevien strolled in, fingers brushing the spines of books. "You shook them, you know. Seris especially. She's fire, but her fury's all direction. You… you're chaos."
"Good to know I'm so inspirational."
"I'm serious," Zevien said. "This place—our family—it's a web. And you've stormed in like lightning through silk."
Kaelen frowned. "Are you warning me?"
Zevien tilted his head. "No. I'm offering you a map."
Kaelen stood, wary. "Why help me?"
"Because I like balance," Zevien said. "And the others—Seris, Aedric—they've had the board to themselves too long."
He turned to leave.
"One more thing," Zevien said. "Don't trust the queen."
"Didn't plan to."
Elsewhere in the Palace
Aedric stood in the Hall of Lineage, beneath portraits of every monarch that had ruled Velmire. He stared at the gap where Kaelen's would now be painted.
His hand clenched behind his back.
"You were meant to die," he whispered.
He didn't flinch as Seris joined him.
"He doesn't belong here," she said coldly.
"But he is here," Aedric replied.
Seris looked at her brother. "He's strong. Raw. But undisciplined."
"That makes him dangerous."
"Or useful."
Aedric turned, surprised. "You would use him?"
She nodded slowly. "Until he burns himself out."
In the Dungeons Below
Queen Iselyn stood in a sealed chamber lit only by blue runes. Before her knelt a cloaked figure—one of the palace's secret informants.
"Tell me about the traitor," she said.
The figure bowed their head. "There's movement in Cierath. And in Velmire. The order you thought extinguished—The Thirteenth Thorn—they're alive."
"And Kaelen?"
The informant paused. "He may be the storm they feared."
Queen Iselyn's face betrayed nothing.
"Then let him rise," she said softly. "The higher he climbs, the farther he will fall."