(Kael Varos — Age 13 — A Day Before the Palace Audience)
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I. Eyes of the Academy
Whispers followed Kael everywhere.
Down the vaulted stone hallways toward class. Across the training fields. Over the wind-bridges linking the towers.
Eyes tracked him like he'd grown wings overnight.
"Is that him…?" "He pinned assassins with King Presence—" "Three gates at thirteen?" "And a sacred beast on his shoulder…"
Valdyros perched smugly on that shoulder, tail swaying like a prince touring his domain.
« At last they recognize greatness, » he said.
"They're staring at me, not you," Kael muttered.
« Incorrect. They stare because you stand beside me. »
Ryven, walking at Kael's other side, burst out laughing. "He's got you there."
Kael rolled his eyes.
Serin walked a few paces behind—posture immaculate, chin lifted. Anyone whose stare lingered too long received the kind of noble glare that made them suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere.
Korran simply walked, calm and steady, unbothered by attention. Nira kept close, glancing between Kael and the watching students, worry clear in her eyes. Lyria—arm still in a sling but healing steadily—walked at his side, chin tilted up in open challenge at anyone who whispered too loudly.
By the time they reached the classroom platform, the murmurs had softened to background noise. Serin stepped closer and lowered his voice.
"You've drawn the entire academy's attention," he said. "Some admire you. Others fear you. Learn to live with both."
Kael drew a slow breath.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm trying."
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II. Eiran's Royal Survival Training
Later, Eiran led Kael to a quiet training hall behind the Arclight Tower—empty mats, dust-moted sunlight spilling through slatted windows, the faint smell of wood oil and sweat.
"We're not practicing swordwork today," Eiran said.
Kael frowned. "Then what are we—"
"You are going before the king in three days," Eiran cut in. "So today you learn how not to get executed for offending royalty."
Kael blinked once. "Right. That does seem important."
Eiran began pacing a slow circle around him.
"First: you do not speak unless spoken to," he said. "Second: you bow—deeply enough to show respect, but not like a servant. You are not dirt beneath his boots."
Kael nodded.
"Third: keep your temper," Eiran continued. "Even if he prods you. Especially if he prods you."
"Got it," Kael said.
Eiran stopped in front of him, gaze hard.
"And last," he said, "you do not show power. No King Presence. No storm-light. No Soul Gate. If they believe you can't control yourself, they'll fear you. Fearful rulers make dangerous decisions."
Kael swallowed. "Understood."
Valdyros lounged on a ceiling beam, head resting on folded forearms.
« Humans are fragile, » he observed. « If they annoy you, simply roar. Assert dominance. »
Eiran shot him a look. "Do not roar in the throne room."
Valdyros huffed.
« Then perhaps hiss. Or hum ominously. »
Kael pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is going to be a disaster."
⸻
III. The Politics of Sacred Beasts
After etiquette and posture drills that felt more exhausting than sword training, Kael leaned back against the wall to breathe. Valdyros glided down, landing beside him with unusual gravity in his eyes.
« Listen carefully, child, » the dragon said. « Kings fear sacred beasts for two reasons. »
"Just two?" Kael asked weakly.
« One: we do not bow. To anyone. Two: where we choose to stand can legitimize—or destabilize—an entire kingdom. »
Kael blinked. "So the king might see you as a threat?"
« Or an omen. Or a prize. Or all three. Humans are… layered. Mostly irritating. »
Kael exhaled. "Perfect."
Valdyros spread his wings slightly, not in threat—just reminder.
« I chose you, » he said. « Not him. Remember that when you stand before his throne. Kings bend their knees—if not their bodies, then their will—to storms they cannot command. »
The words settled in Kael's chest like a weight and a shield.
Chosen. Storm. Not a weapon for the crown by default.
Unless he allowed it.
⸻
IV. Lyria's Token
That afternoon, Kael slipped back into the Healers' Hall.
Lyria sat upright on a bed near the window, sunlight washing over her. A slow, steady weave of healing light wrapped her shoulder and upper arm. She looked tired but more alive than she had any right to be after last night.
She brightened when she saw him.
"Kael."
He relaxed a little. "How's the arm?"
"Better than the healer's mood," she said dryly. "I think he's personally offended I didn't die just to make his work more meaningful."
Kael huffed a laugh, something unwinding in his chest.
She studied him for a moment.
"You look tense," she said.
"Meeting the king is… a lot," he admitted.
"Then take this."
She reached beneath her pillow and pulled out a small pendant—round, simple, etched with delicate runes in a spiral pattern.
"This was my mother's," she said. "It's for protection and luck. She wore it when she traveled to the capital."
Kael's eyes widened. "Lyria, that's— I can't take that."
"You can," she said, pressing it into his palm. "Because you're not walking into that palace alone."
He looked down at the pendant, then back at her.
"You sure?" he asked quietly.
Her smile softened. "Always."
He slid the necklace over his head.
For the first time all day, he felt something like armor that wasn't made of Source or steel.
⸻
V. Serin's Noble Etiquette Class
When Kael returned to the Arclight commons, he found Serin waiting with a book that looked thick enough to stop a crossbow bolt.
Serin snapped it closed as Kael approached.
"You will not embarrass us," Serin said.
Ryven snorted from the couch. "He means he doesn't want you walking in like a feral thunder beast."
"Precisely," Serin replied smoothly.
Korran nodded. "Serin knows court customs. Let him help you."
Nira was already pulling out parchment and charcoal. "I'll take notes. Just in case any of us end up in front of the king one day."
Lyria sat down beside Kael, sling resting across her lap, eyes bright with amusement.
Serin cleared his throat.
"Lesson one: posture," he said.
Kael straightened his back, shoulders square.
"No," Serin said. "That is soldier posture. Good for battle, not for court. You will look like you're about to declare war on the entire palace."
Kael slouched.
"Now you look like Ryven."
"Hey!" Ryven protested.
Serin eyed Kael again. "Less rigid. Less limp. Try again."
Kael adjusted, finding a middle ground.
Serin tilted his head. "Now you resemble a confused flamingo."
Ryven doubled over laughing.
Valdyros flicked his tail approvingly.
« A flamingo with slightly acceptable bearing, » he said.
Kael groaned. "I hate all of you."
Lyria patted his knee. "You're doing great, actually."
That helped more than any of Serin's critiques.
⸻
VI. Preparing the Outfit
As the sun dipped low, Nira reappeared carrying folded fabric in her arms.
"I finished it," she said, a bit breathless.
She unfolded a deep blue cloak trimmed with subtle silver thread. The embroidery along the edges formed flowing, wave-like patterns—dignified, not gaudy.
"It's traditional for formal audiences," Nira explained. "I, um… reworked an old ceremonial garment from the stores and tailored it to your measurements."
Kael ran a hand over the cloth. "It's… incredible."
Ryven slapped him between the shoulder blades. "You're gonna look like you stepped out of a fancy painting."
Korran nodded, approving. "Appropriate for someone being summoned by a king."
Serin fastened the clasp at Kael's throat with practiced ease.
"Better," Serin said. "You look like you belong in the capital—not like you accidentally teleported there."
Lyria stepped in front of Kael and fussed with his hair, smoothing a stubborn strand back behind his ear.
Her touch was light. Familiar.
"Perfect," she said.
Piece by piece, they were armoring him—not just in cloth, but in care.
He wasn't walking into that throne room alone, no matter how far away it was.
⸻
VII. The King Prepares Too
Far away, in the palace of Elyndria, preparations moved at a different pace.
King Eryndor stood before a polished bronze mirror as attendants adjusted his dark blue ceremonial cloak, gold threads catching in the light. His face was worn by years rather than cruelty—eyes sharp, tired, and thoughtful.
An advisor spoke from behind him.
"The boy arrives in one day, Your Majesty."
"Yes," Eryndor said quietly.
"Do you see him as a threat?" the advisor asked.
Eryndor's reflection stilled.
"Something has brushed this child," he said. "Something I do not yet understand."
"Then why meet him?" another counselor pressed.
"Because ignoring storms," Eryndor replied, "does not stop them. It only ensures they break upon you when you are unprepared."
He turned away from the mirror and walked toward the balcony overlooking the city.
"Summon the council," he said. "When Kael Varos stands before my throne, I will not be the only one to see what he is becoming."
⸻
VIII. The Dream Before the Journey
That night, sleep took Kael quickly—and drew him somewhere else entirely.
White.
Endless. Soft, but not empty.
The Architect's realm.
The Prime Architect stepped from the horizon of light, robes shifting like galaxies, eyes holding the weight of too many futures.
"You walk toward power, my chosen," the Architect said. "Toward eyes that judge, hands that grasp, hearts that waver between awe and fear."
Kael bowed his head slightly.
"Will they accept me?" he asked.
"Some will seek to shape you," the Architect said. "Some will seek to hide you. Some will wish to break you. And some…" The god's gaze softened. "…will stand beside you even when they do not understand you."
Kael thought of Lyria's pendant resting against his chest. Of Serin with his etiquette book. Of Ryven's laughter. Korran's quiet support. Nira's careful hands. Valdyros's steady presence.
"What should I do?" Kael asked.
The Architect's eyes glowed brighter.
"Be the storm they cannot bend," the Architect said. "Not for their thrones. Not for their fears. But for the balance only you can see from where you stand."
Light flared—
Kael woke in his narrow academy bed, heart steady, Lyria's pendant warm against his skin.
One day until the palace.
He exhaled, then swung his legs over the side of the bed.
"I'm ready," he murmured.
Outside, dawn was just beginning to touch the city.
And somewhere far above, the Architect watched as the storm moved one step closer to the throne.