The egg pulsed like a second heartbeat against Kaelan's chest.
He hadn't slept.
Wrapped in furs inside the stone chamber Ryn called "the Frostheart," Kaelan sat cross-legged on the floor, the cracked shell cradled in his lap. Blue light flickered across the walls—soft, rhythmic, alive.
Outside, wind howled through the pines. But here, in this ancient room carved with runes of ice and sky, time seemed to slow.
"You're warm," the voice whispered—not in his ears, but in the space between thoughts.
Kaelan didn't flinch. "You're loud."
A sound like distant thunder rumbled in his mind. Amusement.
"I am Frosthael. Last of the Sky-Tear Dragons. And you… are just a boy with too much pride and too little sense."
"I held my own against Ryn today."
"He let you win."
Kaelan's jaw tightened. He'd suspected as much.
"But… you saw his patterns. That is rare. Most humans swing like drunk bears."
A pause. Then, softer:
"Sleep, little heir. Tomorrow, the real test begins."
Exhaustion crashed over him. For the first time since his mother's death, Kaelan closed his eyes—and dreamed of wings made of stormlight.
Dawn came sharp and silver.
Ryn stood at the chamber entrance, arms crossed. "You survived the night. Good."
Kaelan rose, the egg tucked safely in a fur-lined satchel at his side. "What's the test?"
"Hunt." Ryn tossed him a shortbow and three arrows. "Bring back a snowstag. Alive. If you kill it, you fail."
Kaelan blinked. "How do I capture a stag without killing it?"
"Figure it out." Ryn turned. "You have until sunset. Fail, and you go hungry. Again."
The forest swallowed him whole.
Ancient pines loomed like sentinels. Snow lay thick, muffling sound. Every breath burned. Kaelan moved slowly, ears straining.
He found tracks—hoofprints, wide and deep. Fresh.
Following them, he reached a clearing. There, beneath a frozen waterfall, stood a snowstag: white as bone, antlers like shattered ice, eyes glowing faintly blue.
Kaelan nocked an arrow.
But as he drew, Frosthael's voice cut through his mind:
"Fool. You cannot cage spirit with steel."
He lowered the bow.
Think. Observe.
The stag drank from a thin stream of meltwater. It wasn't afraid. It watched him.
Then Kaelan remembered Ryn's lesson: "In the north, respect earns what force cannot."
Slowly, he knelt. Placed the bow on the snow.
He reached into his satchel, pulled out a strip of dried venison—the last of his rations—and laid it on a flat stone.
The stag snorted. Stepped closer. Sniffed.
Minutes passed. The wind stilled.
Then, with impossible grace, the stag lowered its head… and ate from his hand.
Kaelan didn't move. Didn't breathe.
When it finished, the stag locked eyes with him—deep, knowing—and turned, vanishing into the trees.
But not before dropping a single antler shard at his feet.
Kaelan picked it up. Warm. Humming.
Back at the ruins, Ryn examined the shard. His stern face softened—just slightly.
"You passed."
"I didn't bring the stag."
"You earned its trust. That is rarer than meat." He handed Kaelan a bowl of stew. "Eat. You'll need strength for what comes next."
That afternoon, the sea roared.
Not with wind—but with wreckage.
Kaelan stood on the cliffs, watching black waves hurl splintered wood onto the shore. Among the debris, something moved.
A body.
He ran.
The boy was half-drowned, skin dark as desert stone, hair matted with salt and blood. A crude knife hung at his belt. Tribal tattoos coiled up his arms—symbols of the southern barbarians.
Kaelan dragged him above the tide line.
The boy coughed, eyes snapping open—golden, feral, terrified.
He lunged, grabbing Kaelan's throat.
Kaelan didn't fight. Just stared, calm, crimson eyes unblinking.
After a moment, the boy released him, panting.
"Why… not kill me?" he rasped in broken Common Tongue.
"You're not my enemy," Kaelan said.
"I am barbarian. Everyone kills barbarians."
"Not here."
Ryn arrived, hand on his sword. "Leave him. He'll steal, lie, or run."
Kaelan shook his head. "He's alone. Like I was."
Ryn studied the boy. Then grunted. "Fine. But if he betrays us, you deal with him."
They carried him to the Frostheart.
That night, the boy—Darok—ate in silence. When Kaelan offered water, he took it with a nod.
Later, by the fire, Darok spoke.
"My ship… hunted by sea-wyrms. All dead. I jumped." He looked at Kaelan. "You saved me. Why?"
Kaelan touched the frostwolf locket. "Because someone should have saved my mother."
Darok said nothing. But in his eyes, something shifted.
Days turned to weeks.
Darok healed. Learned the language. Trained alongside Kaelan—faster, wilder, but fiercely loyal.
Their first spar ended with Kaelan pinned, Darok's knife at his throat.
"You fight like noble," Darok grinned. "Too clean."
Kaelan laughed—the first time in years. "And you fight like a wolf."
"Good. Wolves survive."
Ryn watched them, arms crossed. "You two… balance each other."
At night, Kaelan and Darok sat on the cliffs, sharing stories.
Darok spoke of deserts that burned by day and froze by night, of sand-sharks and sky-serpents.
Kaelan spoke of ice that sang, of dragons who once ruled the skies, of a mother who died of a broken heart.
One evening, Darok asked, "You ever go back?"
Kaelan gazed south, toward the empire. "When I'm strong enough to change it."
"I'll go with you."
"Why?"
Darok's golden eyes gleamed. "Because you see me. Not a barbarian. A brother."
Kaelan placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then we'll return together."
But peace never lasts.
One morning, Frosthael's voice tore through Kaelan's mind—urgent, sharp.
"Danger. From the southeast. They stir."
Kaelan ran to the highest peak. Through the spyglass Ryn kept there, he scanned the horizon.
Far, far away—beyond known maps—a black smudge stained the sea.
An island.
And from it, a column of unnatural fog rose, twisting like a serpent.
"The Cursed Isle," Frosthael whispered. "Home of the Karthians. They awaken."
Kaelan's blood ran cold.
He'd heard the tales—whispers of creatures that devoured souls, left only hollow shells.
Ryn joined him, face grim. "You saw it too."
Kaelan nodded. "They're coming."
"Then we prepare." Ryn's hand fell on his sword. "And you, boy—you must become more than heir. You must become a weapon."
That night, training intensified.
Duels weren't just sparring anymore.
They were battles.
Kaelan fought Darok with wooden swords until his hands bled.
He dueled Ryn blindfolded, learning to read movement through sound and air.
He practiced archery in blizzards, tracking targets by scent alone.
And every night, he held the egg—and listened.
"Patience," Frosthael murmured. "Your time is coming. But first… you must learn to lead."
Kaelan looked at Darok sharpening his knife, at Ryn watching the stars, at the egg pulsing softly in the dark.
He wasn't just surviving anymore.
He was building something worth protecting.
And when the Karthians came—
—he would be ready.