The egg cracked at midnight.
Not loudly—just a hairline fracture splitting the shell with a sound like distant thunder. Blue light spilled out, pooling on the stone floor of the Frostheart chamber.
Kaelan sat bolt upright, heart hammering.
"It begins," Frosthael whispered in his mind.
Darok stirred in the corner, hand instinctively reaching for his knife. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Kaelan lied. "Just the wind."
But it wasn't.
That night, for the first time, Kaelan didn't just hear Frosthael—he saw him.
In his dream, he stood on a mountain of glass, sky burning crimson. Below, an army of shadows crawled across the land—twisted forms with glowing violet eyes, limbs ending in claws of obsidian. They tore through villages, leaving only hollow statues of blackened flesh.
And at their center… a throne of bone, pulsing with dark energy.
"The Karthians," Frosthael's voice echoed. "They do not conquer. They erase."
Kaelan tried to speak, but no sound came.
"This is not yet. But it will be. Unless you rise."
He woke gasping, sweat freezing on his brow.
Darok was already awake, watching him. "Bad dream?"
Kaelan nodded, clutching the locket. "Worse. A warning."
At dawn, Ryn found them packing supplies.
"Where are you going?"
"The Glacier of Echoes," Kaelan said. "Frosthael showed me something. I need to see it for myself."
Ryn's eyes narrowed. "That place is forbidden. Even for us."
"It's calling me."
A long silence. Then Ryn sighed. "Fine. But you go together. And you return before the blizzard hits."
They set out at sunrise—Kaelan, Darok, and two wolves Ryn lent them for tracking.
The journey took three days.
On the second night, as they camped beneath a frozen overhang, Darok sharpened his knife and asked, "Why do you trust that voice in your head?"
Kaelan poked the fire. "Because it doesn't lie. It doesn't flatter. It just… is."
"Like the desert wind," Darok said. "It doesn't care if you live or die. But it tells the truth."
Kaelan smiled faintly. "Exactly."
Then, quieter: "Do you ever miss your home?"
Darok stared into the flames. "My tribe is gone. Swallowed by sandstorms or slave traders. This…" He gestured between them. "This is my home now."
Kaelan placed a hand on his shoulder. No words needed.
The Glacier of Echoes was a canyon of ice, miles long, where every sound repeated three times.
They entered at noon. Sunlight fractured through the walls, casting prisms that danced like spirits.
In the center of the glacier stood a monolith—smooth, black, covered in ancient runes.
"Touch it," Frosthael urged.
Kaelan stepped forward. Placed his palm on the stone.
Cold seared through him—not of temperature, but of memory.
Suddenly, he wasn't in the glacier.
He stood in a grand hall, centuries ago. Men in dragon-scale armor knelt before a throne. On it sat a woman with silver hair and eyes like glaciers—Queen Vaelira of Frostveil.
Before her, a dragon the color of storm clouds bowed its head.
"We swear eternal pact," the dragon rumbled. "Our blood with yours. Our wings over your lands."
Then—betrayal.
Men in imperial robes poured liquid shadow into the dragon's throat. The beast screamed, its form twisting, dissolving into smoke.
The queen fell to her knees, tears freezing on her cheeks.
"We broke the pact," Frosthael whispered. "And the dragons never returned."
Kaelan jerked back, gasping.
Darok caught him before he fell. "What did you see?"
"Our ancestors' sin," Kaelan breathed. "We betrayed the dragons. That's why they vanished."
Back at Valryke Isle, Ryn listened in silence.
When Kaelan finished, the old lord closed his eyes. "I knew pieces of this tale. But not the truth." He opened them, sharp as flint. "This changes everything."
"How?"
"If the dragons left because of betrayal… then perhaps they can return—if trust is rebuilt." His gaze fell on the egg. "And you… you may be the first Frostveil heir worthy of that trust in three hundred years."
That night, training intensified.
Ryn no longer held back.
Their duels became brutal, precise, relentless.
One afternoon, after Kaelan disarmed him for the third time, Ryn wiped blood from his lip and said, "You're ready for the Trial of Blades."
Darok whistled. "The one where you fight blindfolded on a frozen lake?"
Ryn nodded. "If he survives, he earns the right to carry a Frostveil blade."
Kaelan's eyes gleamed. "When?"
"Tomorrow."
The lake was a sheet of black ice, ringed by jagged cliffs. Wind howled like a dying beast.
Kaelan stood at the center, blindfolded, wooden sword in hand.
Across from him—Darok.
"You sure about this?" Darok called over the wind. "I don't pull punches."
"Good," Kaelan said. "Neither do I."
The duel began.
No sight. Only sound, vibration, instinct.
Darok struck first—a low sweep aimed at Kaelan's legs.
Kaelan leapt, twisted mid-air, landed behind him.
Darok spun, slashing upward.
Kaelan blocked, countered, pressed forward.
They moved like shadows—fluid, fierce, perfectly matched.
For ten minutes, neither gained ground.
Then Kaelan feinted left, dropped low, and swept Darok's feet.
Darok hit the ice hard—but rolled, kicked Kaelan's knee, and flipped him onto his back.
They grappled, breath steaming, muscles straining.
Finally, Kaelan locked Darok's arm, pinned him.
Silence.
Then Darok laughed. "You've been holding back."
Kaelan removed the blindfold. "So have you."
Ryn stepped forward. "Enough." He tossed Kaelan a sheathed sword—steel, etched with the Frostwolf. "You passed."
Kaelan drew it. The blade sang in the cold air.
"At last," Frosthael murmured. "A weapon worthy of your hand."
That evening, as snow began to fall, Kaelan stood on the cliffs alone.
Darok joined him, handing him a cup of hot broth.
"You're thinking about the vision," he said.
Kaelan nodded. "The Karthians aren't just monsters. They're punishment. For what we did to the dragons."
"Then we fix it."
"How?"
Darok grinned. "By being better than those who came before us."
Kaelan looked south, toward the empire, toward the future.
He touched the new sword at his hip. Felt the egg pulsing in his satchel. Heard Frosthael's quiet presence in his mind.
He wasn't just Kaelan Valrith anymore.
He was the bridge between past and future.
Between man and dragon.
Between broken oaths… and redemption.
And when the storm came—
—he would stand at its heart, sword in hand, brother at his side, and say:
"No more."