Kael Varos — Age 13 The Day After Famine
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I. Awakening in the Quiet
Kael woke to silence.
Not the soft, gentle quiet of early morning—but the hollow kind that comes after screaming stops. The kind that rings in your skull and makes you wonder what's missing.
His eyes opened slowly.
Canvas ceiling.
Flickering lanterns hung from a wooden beam.
The air thick with herbs, burnt charcoal… and the burnt-iron smell of dried blood.
Pain pulsed through every inch of him. His chest ached like someone had stabbed ice into his ribs. His limbs felt heavy, like they'd been poured full of wet sand.
He tried to sit up—
A hand pressed firmly to his shoulder.
"Easy, boy."
Kael blinked up into a familiar, lined face.
"Master… Eiran?"
Eiran Thalos looked older than Kael had ever seen him. Exhaustion carved deep shadows beneath his eyes, silver hair mussed, robes scorched at the edges.
"You're alive," Eiran said quietly. "That's what matters."
Memory slammed into Kael like a hammer.
A bone-white mask.
Helda's body splitting in two.
Dolsen shriveling to ash.
Cold fingers on his chest, pulling at his Gates.
He sucked in a sharp breath, heart racing.
"The others—?" His voice cracked. "Lyria? Nira? Serin? Korran—?"
A softer voice answered from his left.
"We're here."
Kael turned his head.
Lyria sat curled in a wooden chair beside his cot, eyes red-rimmed, dried tear tracks etched down her cheeks. Nira slept against her shoulder, arms still half-wrapped around a satchel of healing tools, green hair falling messily over her face.
Korran sat with his back to the wall, bruises blooming along his arms and jaw but posture steady as ever.
Ryven lay sprawled on the floor with a blanket thrown over him, bandages wrapped around his forehead. Even in sleep, his brow furrowed as if arguing with someone in a dream.
Serin occupied a nearby cot, arm splinted and bound to his chest. His eyes were closed, expression stiff even unconscious—like his pride refused to relax.
And curled against Kael's ribs like a living shield—
Valdyros.
The little dragon's tail draped protectively across Kael's stomach, wings tucked tight. His golden eyes were half-lidded, but he wasn't asleep.
He was trembling.
Kael let out a shaky breath, relief washing over him so hard it almost hurt.
"Thank the Source…"
He swallowed—and the scene from the night before crashed back again, sharper now.
Famine's fingers on his chest.
The cold.
The feeling of his very self being pulled out.
Helda screaming.Dolsen turning to dust.
His body tensed. He gasped.
Eiran's hand squeezed his shoulder.
"You survived something no child—no soldier—should ever have to face," he said softly.
Kael forced his breathing to slow. "Did…" His throat tightened. "Did everyone else…?"
Eiran's eyes darkened.
"No."
Kael stared at the canvas above him.
He didn't ask who.
He didn't have to.
The spaces where Helda and Dolsen should've been were loud enough.
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II. The Return to Elyndria
The journey back to Elyndria felt less like a victory escort and more like a funeral procession dressed in royal colors.
The royal carriage rattled along the Silver Road, wheels humming over stone. Captain Daen rode beside it, armor polished, cloak snapping in the wind, jaw clenched like he wanted something to punch.
Guildmaster Vessa Rynn followed close behind on a smoke-gray mare, her blazing spear strapped across her back. For once, there was no smirk on her face—only a tight, simmering anger.
The city walls rose in the distance, shining white in the afternoon sun.
Citizens crowded along the main road as the procession entered the capital.
At first, they cheered at the sight of the Royal Guard and banners.
Then the Seven stepped out.
"The heroes of the Silver Road!""Those are the academy prodigies!""They killed the monster!""That's the storm child—the triple-gate boy!"
Kael felt the weight of hundreds of eyes on him as they walked toward the palace. Some gazes were awed. Some hungry. Some frightened.
He tried to smile.
It felt wrong on his face.
They don't know, he thought.
They don't know what that thing was.
They don't know it walked away.
Lyria's fingers slid into his, squeezing gently.
"You don't have to smile if it hurts," she murmured.
He glanced at her and managed a small, real smile—just for her. "It's okay," he whispered. "Thank you."
Valdyros shifted on his shoulder, scales bristling.
« Fools, » the dragon muttered in his mind. « Praising children who survived by miracle and the interference of four masters. They cheer for a battle that was barely a taste of what's coming. »
Kael nudged him lightly with his chin. Not now.
« No, » Valdyros replied flatly. « Especially now. »
Ryven, walking ahead, tried to wave and grin like normal, but his hand shook. Korran's face stayed set in that careful stillness he wore when he didn't trust his own emotions. Nira stayed close to Lyria, eyes flicking nervously between the crowd and the ground.
Serin kept his chin up and shoulders squared despite the sling—his noble mask firmly in place—but Kael had learned to read the tension in his jaw.
They moved forward through cheers like soldiers walking through smoke.
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III. The Royal Audience — "Heroes"
The throne room doors groaned open.
Light poured in from high stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in blues and golds. Nobles clustered on either side, whispers scattering like birds as the Seven approached.
King Eryndor waited atop his throne, broad-shouldered, armored in ceremonial gold and deep blue. Crown glinting. Eyes sharp.
This time, Kael could feel something else in him beneath the royal composure.
Strain.
Worry.
"Seven young warriors," the king said, voice filling the hall, "who stood before the impossible and returned alive."
He rose, descending the steps one measured stride at a time.
"Elyndria honors you."
There was no mock ceremony in his tone this time. No distant royal politeness. He stopped directly in front of Kael.
A calloused hand landed on Kael's shoulder—steady, heavy, grounding.
"Your courage," Eryndor said, "and your hearts, saved lives."
Kael swallowed, bowing his head.
"Your Majesty, we—"
The king raised a hand.
"No humility," he said. "Not today."
He turned, voice amplifying.
"On this day, let it be known—Elyndria stands because these children decided not to run."
He gestured outward.
"Bow."
To Kael's shock, the entire council—lords, ladies, military captains, advisors—fell to one knee in a wave of rustling silk and clinking armor.
The Seven stood at the center of the hall, small and battered and staring.
"Rise, young heroes," Eryndor said, looking each of them in the eye in turn. "For Elyndria stands stronger today because of you."
Heat pricked behind Kael's eyes.
For a moment—for just a moment—he let himself feel it. Not the cold of Famine's hand. Not the sound of bodies hitting dirt.
Just the simple, fragile pride of knowing:
We lived.
We fought.
We protected people.
Then the moment passed.
And the weight remained.
⸻
IV. Feast of Heroes — Two Faces of a Kingdom
That night, the palace blazed with light.
Musicians played from balconies, strings and flutes weaving together in triumphant melodies. The main hall overflowed with long tables piled with food: roasted meats glazed in honey and spice, pyramids of fruit, steaming breads, glittering crystal bowls filled with jeweled candies that looked almost too pretty to eat.
Ryven took one look and actually started crying.
"FOOD," he whispered hoarsely. "Real food. I'm going to eat until I see the Architect."
Korran picked up a silk napkin between calloused fingers, examining the stitching like it was a relic.
Nira stared into a crystal goblet, watching the way light broke through it. "It's… beautiful," she said softly.
Serin sat straighter than he ever had in class, clearly determined to demonstrate he was absolutely used to this level of luxury—right up until he bit into some kind of spiced, honeyed meat and almost melted on the spot.
"It's… acceptable," he managed. Then grabbed two more.
Lyria leaned close to Kael.
"This is like something out of a story," she whispered. "I used to hear about feasts like this as a kid and imagine what they'd look like."
Kael glanced around, taking it in—the chandeliers, the music, the laughter. It was beautiful.
"It is," he admitted quietly.
But…
His eyes drifted past the open balcony doors.
Out there, beyond the polished railings and carved stone—
He saw a narrow side street lit by a single flickering lantern. A group of children sat huddled together around an empty crate, clothes ragged, hands scraped, eyes hollow.
A guard backhanded a thin man into a wall for grabbing at a passing loaf of bread.
Two women slept curled beside a golden statue in the square, using their cloaks as thin blankets as nobles rode past in carriages.
At the far end of the main gate, a small boy reached for a dropped crumb near the feast wagons—only to be shoved away by a servant with a practiced, dismissive sweep of the hand.
In a shadowed alley, something moved—figures dragging someone deeper, out of sight.
Lyria followed his gaze.
The glow on her face dimmed.
"This doesn't feel like paradise after all," she whispered.
Kael exhaled slowly.
"No," he said. "It doesn't."
Valdyros' mental voice brushed across his thoughts, low and solemn:
« Every kingdom has two faces, child. One painted for the world…And one carved into its bones. »
Kael's fingers tightened around his goblet.
He wondered which face the storm was meant to save.
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V. The King's Offer — A New Path
Eventually, the music softened. Servers stepped back. Conversation dimmed as King Eryndor rose, goblet in hand.
"To Elyndria's new light," he called, voice warm but iron-backed, "to the Seven of the Silver Road!"
The hall erupted in applause.
Ryven nearly fell out of his chair cheering.Nira jumped slightly at the noise, then laughed.Korran just smiled, small but true.Serin lifted his goblet with practiced precision.Lyria's eyes shone as she raised hers.
Kael lifted his last, more out of respect than habit.
When the cheers died down, the king turned fully toward them.
"Your courage against both beast and… darker forces," he said, the briefest flicker of shadow crossing his expression, "has made something very clear. You are not simply students anymore."
He stepped down from the dais again, closer now. Not speaking at them, but to them.
"Effective immediately," he declared, "you seven are placed under a specialized battalion charter beneath Captain Daen Reth. You will no longer be limited to standard academy paths."
Murmurs rippled through the watching nobles.
"You will receive heightened training directly from:
Daen Reth — Master of Body.
Eiran Thalos — Master of Mind.
Sylara Veylon — Master of Soul."
Three figures stepped forward as their names were spoken, their presences filling the edges of the room like three different kinds of storm.
"You will operate as a special unit," Eryndor continued, "protectors of Elyndria where conventional forces cannot go. You will be the hand we extend… and the shield we raise."
Lyria's breath caught.
"Us?" she whispered.
Serin bowed immediately, every inch the noble heir. "We are honored, Your Majesty."
Ryven tried to bow, tripped over someone's foot, and took his chair down with him.
Nira yelped and helped him up, laughing through the nerves.
Korran placed a steady hand over his heart in a warrior's salute.
Kael felt everyone's eyes on him—friends, mentors, king.
He dropped to one knee.
"We accept, Your Majesty."
The others followed—seven silhouettes kneeling under the palace lights.
Eryndor smiled—not the distant king-smile, but something brief and real.
"Good."
He paused, then added:
"You will begin with a diplomatic escort mission three weeks from now—protecting Princess Arion on her journey to Vardain."
Kael's head lifted.
Princess Arion—the girl who had watched him from the dais, curiosity bright in her emerald eyes.Vardain—the Iron Theocracy on Elyndria's border.
Diplomacy.
Royal blood.
Potential war.
His stomach twisted with equal parts excitement and dread.
Something tugged inside him—a familiar, unsettling pull.
The feeling of destiny quietly rearranging the pieces on the board.
⸻
VI. Afterglow and Shadow
Much later—when the music had faded, tables had been cleared, and drunk nobles staggered down polished corridors—the balcony overlooking the city stood almost empty.
Almost.
Kael leaned on the stone railing, the capital spread beneath him like a sea of lanterns. Wind tugged lightly at his hair, carrying the faint smells of smoke, spice, and river-water.
The feast hall's laughter was distant, muffled behind thick doors.
Down below, he could still see both faces of Elyndria.
The glowing plazas and shining towers.The dark alleys and bent backs.
He didn't know which one he was supposed to be protecting.
Soft footsteps approached.
"You always end up by a balcony," Lyria murmured, stepping beside him. "Starting to think you like dramatic views."
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Maybe they help me think."
"You okay?" she asked.
He thought about lying.
"…I don't know," he admitted instead. "We're being called heroes for surviving something that could have erased us without even trying. Two people died under our watch. And now we're being asked to guard a princess and represent a kingdom I'm not sure I fully trust."
Lyria leaned her arms on the railing, shoulder brushing his.
"Yeah," she said. "That sounds like 'not okay' to me."
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
Her head found his shoulder, resting there like it belonged.
"Whatever comes next," she said, gaze fixed on the city lights, "we face it together. That hasn't changed."
Kael's chest loosened, just a little.
"No," he agreed. "It hasn't."
Valdyros padded out onto the railing, curling along it like a jewel-encrusted serpent. He rested his head against Kael's neck, golden eyes scanning the city below.
« Child… » His voice in Kael's mind was quiet, not mocking—threaded with real concern. « Be cautious. Victory breeds blindness—in kings, in crowds, in heroes. The Anti-Architect has moved a piece onto the board. Fate is… shifting. »
Kael watched a group of guards march along the street, their torches bobbing like fallen stars.
"The storm isn't over," he murmured. "It's just beginning."
Lyria's hand found his.
Valdyros' tail wrapped around his collarbone like a warm, worried scarf.
Behind them, music swelled again for some late toast they weren't there to hear.
Ahead of them, beyond the lanterns and marble and hidden alleys—
Vardain waited.
Princess Arion waited.
The other Horsemen waited.
Malek Voren watched from the shadows.
And somewhere above, in a place of light and patience,the Prime Architect watched his chosen storm learn how heavy survival could be.