Snowflakes fell gently across the Northern Wastes, each one gliding down like a feather from a dying bird, landing soundlessly on the endless white expanse. The wind whispered softly, lacking the fury of a true blizzard, instead producing a low, steady moan that chilled to the bone. The sky loomed low and gray, an oppressive hue that suggested the sun had long forsaken this desolate land.
Kael Draven maneuvered through the relentless snow, taking each cautious step with a sense of purpose.
Five years had slipped by since the gates of Eldren Citadel had closed behind him. Five years since the brand seared into his chest. Five years since the world had turned its back on him.
He had been wandering for hours or perhaps days; time felt amorphous in this barren wilderness, stretching and folding until its very meaning dissolved. The crunch of his boots punctuated the silence as he left shallow impressions in the snow, soon to be eroded by the wind. There was no urgency in his steps; night would arrive regardless of pace.
The air was so frigid it bit at his lungs with every breath. Each inhale stung his throat, while each exhale transformed into a ghostly mist that dissipated almost immediately. He tightened the fur collar of his snow-bear cloak around his face, the fabric worn and matted, a tapestry of campfire smoke and the faint, metallic scent of blood from the bear that had sacrificed itself for him.
At twenty-two, he sometimes felt centuries older. His once neat black hair had grown long and unkempt, tied back with a thin strip of leather, ice clinging to the ends. A dense beard obscured his jawline, but his piercing silver-gray eyes remained unchanged, similar to storm clouds poised to unleash a tempest. He scanned the horizon methodically, ever in search of danger, shelter, or anything significant.
Another day, he mused. Another day devoid of purpose.
The thought held no bitterness; that fire had long extinguished. Instead, a steady, quiet ache lingered—an enduring burden akin to the weight of his crude iron sword slung across his back.
He paused momentarily, surveying the stillness. Nothing moved but the persistent snow. The landscape stretched flat as far as the eye could see, broken solely by gentle ridges and sporadic jagged rocks piercing through the ice. In the far north, nearly swallowed by the gray haze, loomed the ominous Needle Spire. It had been three days since he started toward it, yet it felt no closer.
Kael adjusted the small pack on his shoulder, which contained dried meat, a nearly frozen waterskin, and a few strips of kindling wrapped in oiled cloth. He took a careful sip from the skin; the water was icy enough to make his teeth ache, but it sustained him.
Again he walked.
Memories began to wash over him gently, devoid of the sharpness they once possessed. They floated in like the falling snow.
He recalled a different kind of cold—the gentle evening breeze on the rooftops of Eldren Citadel. At seventeen, fresh from his Grand Tournament victory, he had gazed upon the city lights glittering below like scattered stars, with Elara sitting beside him, her silver hair shimmering in the moonlight.
"You were amazing today," she had remarked, playfully nudging him. "Three Diamond-rank veterans, and you made it look effortless."
With a grin, the cocky smile that had begun to garner notoriety, he responded, "Effortless? I held back."
Her laughter, that light, harmonious sound still resonated in his mind. "One day, Kael Draven, your mouth is going to land you in hot water."
He had reclined on his hands, gazing at the cosmos. "Not me. I'll be Mythic by twenty. Nothing can touch me."
Elara's tone became softer, quieter, "Just… promise you'll tread carefully. Such power—people will expect too much from you. And it can make you forget that you're still human."
He brushed aside her words with a laugh, but now, trudging through the endless snow, he felt their weight settle upon him like fresh ice.
Kael shook his head slightly, shaking off the thought. The memory faded, leaving only the howling wind and the relentless cold.
As dusk began to descend, the gray sky deepened to a somber charcoal. The temperature sank further, biting through his thick layers. Searching for shelter, he found a low ridge with a rocky overhang—just enough to shield him from the wind.
With his back resting against the stone, he pulled his knees close and carefully constructed a meager fire. After several attempts, the kindling finally caught, its small flame flickering in the encroaching darkness. He fed it bits of dried dung he had gathered days prior. While it produced more smoke than warmth, it was enough.
He bit into his dried meat, savoring the tough, salty taste that helped fill the void in his belly. Lost in thought, he stared into the flames as they danced and curled.
"Why, here?" he murmured quietly to himself; his voice sounded rough and foreign after a lack of use.
He fully understood the answer. The Northern Wastes were notorious for their violent storms—not the gentle snow falling around him, but ferocious tempests accompanied by wind and lightning that relentlessly battered the towering spires. Old tales spoke of warriors venturing here to temper their bloodlines, seeking power from the very skies.
Yet Kael's bloodlines had been severed, fractured by the void explosion five years ago. He still felt the hollow void within, where Storm and Void had once thrived—cold, silent scars that never healed.
But a flicker remained. A spark. Something tenacious enough not to perished completely.
Thus, he journeyed north—to stand in the storms, to let lightning strike him until either he was incinerated or something awakened.
Looking towards the Needle Spire once more, he resolved that come morning, if the weather permitted, he would finally reach its base; then the ascent; then the waiting.
Kael wrapped his cloak tighter and leaned back into the rock. The fire was dwindling while snow continued its quiet descent.
In the distance, a wolf howled—a long, forlorn sound reverberating through the barren landscape.
He listened without fear, having heard worse throughout his life.
With closed eyes, sleep came slowly in wavering pulses. Here awaited dreams—memories of warmth, triumph, echoes of laughter—but tonight, he chose not to resist. He allowed them to flow in and out like the snow.
As morning unfurled, the sky brightened just slightly. The fire had extinguished, and snow had accumulated against his legs.
Kael rose, stretching his rigid muscles before kicking snow over the embers, shouldering his pack, and forging ahead.
One step. Then another.
Toward the waiting black spire.
Toward whatever lay in wait.