The Needle Spire rose out of the snow like a black blade thrust into the heart of the world. Kael reached its base at midday, or what passed for midday in the Northern Wastes. The sky had lightened only slightly, turning from charcoal to ash-gray. Snow still fell, but more slowly now, as if the clouds were growing tired. The wind picked up, carrying a sharper bite, and distant thunder rumbled like a warning.
He stood there for a long time, looking up. The spire was taller than he had imagined—perhaps two hundred feet or more. Its sides were sheer and dark, scarred by centuries of lightning into glassy streaks that caught what little light existed. Ice coated every surface, turning handholds into traps. One wrong grip or slip, and the fall would end everything.
Kael felt no fear; only a quiet acceptance. This is the place, he thought. If anything can wake what's left inside me, it's here. He tightened the straps of his pack, made sure his iron sword was secure at his belt, and began to climb.
The first few holds were easy enough. His fingers, thick with calluses from years of survival, found cracks in the rock. His boots searched for purchase on narrow ledges. The wind pushed at his back, trying to help him upward or hurry him to his death.
He climbed higher. The ground dropped away beneath him. Snow swirled in small eddies around the spire, collecting in his beard and cloak. His breath came steady and slow. He did not rush. Each movement was careful and deliberate.
Halfway up, the memories came again. He was seventeen, standing in the grand arena of Eldren Citadel. Sunlight poured down from a clear blue sky—the opposite of today's endless gray. The stands were packed with thousands: nobles in fine silks, soldiers in polished armor, common folk waving banners. The air smelled of sweat, roasted nuts, and excitement.
His final opponent, a grizzled Diamond-rank veteran named Harlan Voss—no relation to Elara, though they both found the shared name amusing—circled him warily. Harlan was twice Kael's age, famous for his unbreakable earth bloodline.
"You're good, boy," Harlan grunted, his voice carrying across the arena. "But youth doesn't win against experience."
Kael smiled, the same confident smile that made crowds love him. "We'll see."
The fight was fast and beautiful. Harlan summoned walls of stone to block, spikes from the ground to impale. Kael danced through them all—light on his feet, shadows slipping around attacks like smoke. Tempest Reaver sang in his hands, blue sparks and dark tendrils weaving together.
The final strike came in a blur. Kael leaped high, sword blazing, and brought it down in a perfect arc. The arena floor cracked beneath the impact. Harlan's defenses shattered like glass. The veteran fell to one knee, breathing hard, then raised a hand in surrender.
The crowd erupted. "Tempest Blade! Tempest Blade!"
Kael stood in the center, chest heaving, arms raised. Flowers rained down from the stands. Children rushed the barriers, shouting his name. He felt invincible, untouchable.
Elara found him later in the champion's tent, her eyes shining with pride and something softer. She punched his arm lightly. "Show-off."
He laughed, pulling her into a quick hug. "Did you see their faces? They've never seen anything like it."
She rested her head against his shoulder for a moment. "You were amazing, Kael. But don't let it go to your head."
Too late, he thought now, clinging to the spire as the wind howled around him. It had gone to his head, and it had cost everything.
A gust slammed into him, nearly tearing his left hand free. Ice cracked under his fingers. For a heartbeat, he dangled, body swinging, legs kicking over empty air. Pain flared in his shoulder.
He did not panic. Slowly and carefully, he found another hold and pulled himself higher.
The summit was close now—a flat circle of stone no wider than a small room. Lightning had blackened it over the years, leaving patterns like frozen veins.
Kael hauled himself over the edge and rolled onto his back, breathing hard. Snow dusted his face. The sky above churned, clouds boiling darker. Thunder growled louder, closer.
He sat up slowly, crossing his legs. He removed his pack, took one last drink from his waterskin, then one bite of dried meat. Then he waited.
The storm started gently at first. The wind rose, and the snow turned sideways. Then the first flash came—lightning forking across the clouds, illuminating the wastes below in stark white.
The first bolt struck the spire's tip ten minutes later. It traveled down the rock and into him.
Pain like nothing he had felt since the day Vorath exploded shot through him. Every muscle locked. His teeth ground together. The smell of burning hair and fur filled his nose. For a long moment, the world was only white fire.
When it passed, he remained sitting. He did not move. He did not fall.
More, he thought. I need more.
The second bolt came sooner. Then the third.
Between strikes, exhaustion pulled at him. His mind drifted.
He was back on the rooftop with Elara, the night after the tournament. Stars were bright overhead. The city was quiet below.
She leaned against him, her voice soft. "When you're Mythic, Kael… promise you'll still have time for normal things. For friends. For… us."
He turned to look at her. Moonlight shone on her silver hair. Her green eyes were serious for once.
"I promise," he said. "When I'm Mythic, I'll protect everyone. No one will ever have to fear the Breaches again. And I'll always have time for you."
She smiled then, small and sad, as if she already knew something he didn't.
The next bolt hit, dragging him back to the spire. His body convulsed. His vision blurred.
Hours passed or days. Time lost meaning again. He sat through it all. Lightning struck again and again. His skin blistered. His muscles trembled. But he did not leave.
On what might have been the third night, something changed.
Deep inside the scarred channels of his Storm bloodline, a faint tingle stirred. Not pain this time—something else. A whisper of power, a single blue spark dancing in the dark.
Kael's eyes widened. Tears—whether from pain or hope—froze on his cheeks.
It was small, fragile, barely there.
But it was real.
He laughed then, a cracked, broken sound lost in the thunder.
The storm raged on, and he welcomed it.
The first spark had come. There would be more.