Chapter 13 – When Storms Gather: Part 2

Chapter 13 – When Storms Gather: Part 2

The ruins of Hailch territory smoldered beneath a red moon. What was once a proud fortress now sprawled in blackened stone and ash. The war camp of House Tidor had risen like mold from the bones of the conquered—spiked pavilions of crimson and bronze, their banners soaked in both blood and rain.

Within the central war tent, shadows danced against stretched hide as torchlight flickered uneasily. Earl Ekarvel Tidor stood at the heart of the chamber, armored in darkened steel traced with bone-white etching. His helm rested on a throne of scavenged stone and melted iron, and beside it, a map of Helimdor lay pinned by daggers. Around him, his sons waited—restless, wary.

"I summoned you," Ekarvel said without looking up, "because the Wraith returns tonight."

A gust of wind answered him before any son could speak. The torches hissed. The air grew colder.

And then it stood there—The Pale Wraith—within the tent, though no flap had moved nor footstep fallen. It had not arrived. It had simply been, now here.

A figure shrouded in layered wrappings, armored in blackened plates that breathed mist. No face, no mouth. Only void beneath the hood and the hum of something older than speech.

Its voice came as thought—cold, pressing, inevitable.

"Ekarvel. The pact deepens. Offer what bleeds and learns. One shall walk with fire."

The earl did not flinch, but his sons did. Even **Vaers's** mouth twitched.

**Vaers** stepped forward, defiant. "Take me. I will learn. I will carry your fire."

The voice came again—louder now, inside them.

"Ambition stirs. But it is shallow. Rage without root. You burn quick and bright... and die forgotten."

Rardrin's knees shook. "Father, no! This is wrong—this thing, it twists minds. Can't you feel it—like a snake in your skull?"

"Fear... lives longer than bravery. You feel it, little one. You might survive..."

The Wraith moved between them like mist, tendrils brushing their faces—not flesh, not smoke, but something that made memory tremble. Its presence left frost in the seams of the stone floor.

Ekarvel's voice cut the silence. "You asked for a son. Which one?"

"One will betray you. One will become your shadow. One will die to make the path whole. Choose... wisely."

The Wraith turned, its presence already unraveling.

"The blood of Adraels must burn. Only then will the Crown break."

And it was gone. No footsteps, no sound. Just the cold, just the thought—lingering like a nail in the back of every skull.

******

The wind bit sharper the farther north they rode. Salt and cold mingled in the air, threading through the cloaks of even the hardiest riders. Stormhearth's cliffs loomed distant but unyielding on the horizon, the sea thrashing below like a chained beast.

Don Adraels rode at the front, his dark armor polished but weathered by Gorgon's Mire. The obsidian flame pendant swayed faintly at his chest, pulsing with a hidden warmth. Behind him trailed a chosen escort—Caria Thornf, radiant and calm in her silver mantle, Dvrik, silent but ever-watchful, and Leinara, hood drawn low, her eyes scanning the horizon.

Storm-hewn banners marked the coast road. Grey stone markers with the gryphon of Griffor etched in silver guided them through the wind-scoured path that cut between cliff and sea.

"Seawatch Temple lies just beyond that ridge," Caria said, her voice steady, "I can feel the old wards humming."

Don nodded. "Let's not keep the Watchers waiting."

As they crested the final slope, Seawatch Temple came into view—an ancient hall carved directly into the cliff face, its tall columns weathered by centuries of storms. Sea eagles wheeled overhead. Lanterns of blue flame lit the entrance. At its threshold stood men and women in grey and cobalt robes—mages and guards of House Griffor.

A quiet figure stepped forward from their ranks. **Lord Varant Griffor**, clad in a storm-blue mantle lined with silver feathers, bowed his head.

"Lord Don Adraels of **Adrael City**," he greeted solemnly, "you have come through rising tides."

"To face the wave before it crashes," Don replied, dismounting.

**Varant** offered a faint smile. "Then enter, young lion. The gryphon watches… and the Crown listens. There is much to decide."

Behind the solemn welcome, Don could sense something deeper: uncertainty, tension, and yet, a strange anticipation. The summit would not be a simple counsel. It would be a storm chamber—one where alliances might be forged or shattered.

Waves crashed against the cliffs beneath the ancient Seawatch Temple, their rhythmic thunder echoing within the sanctified halls. The temple was carved from storm-worn stone, its great central chamber lit by azure crystals pulsing faintly with old sea-magic. Above the gathering table, a circular skylight revealed a darkening sky, clouds rolling in like omen.

Don Adraels stood at one end of the table, draped in a dark cloak marked with the subtle gleam of the Blackhorned Lion. Beside him stood Caria Thornf, her eyes sharp beneath the silver-etched hood, and Commander Stagri Veyeb, silent and vigilant.

Across from them loomed the delegation of House Griffor—**Lord Varant Griffor**, an aging giant of a man clad in sea-forged plate, his beard streaked with silver and salt. To his left was Lady Velmira Griffor, his daughter and spymaster, her expression unreadable beneath a veil of blue lace. Behind them stood a contingent of Stormwardens, armor etched with the roaring griffon crest.

Don spoke first. "Stormhearth's silence is not apathy. You watched. You waited. You weighed."

Lord Griffor grunted, voice like a drum against stone. "Aye. And still we weigh. The sea teaches patience. But now the tides churn, and the winds scream. The old houses rise. The Pale Wraith walks again."

Velmira's voice was colder. "You claim you've passed the trial of the Mire. You bring Thornf magic, speak of Wraiths, and wear relics older than empires. Why should we not see a threat?"

Caria stepped forward. "Because the true threat wears a Crown and grins behind a Tidor banner."

Don laid the Obsidian Flame Pendant on the table. It flickered once—dim red veins tracing ancient runes.

"The flame that once conquered this land sleeps no longer," he said. "But we do not seek to burn. We seek to unify. Before the Crown turns storm to fire."

There was silence. Then Lord Griffor nodded slowly.

"We sail with the storm," he rumbled. "But not against our kin. House Griffor will not raise blade nor banner against Adraels… for now."

"But if you fall," Velmira added, "we will not drown with you."

Don met her gaze. "Then I'll make damn sure we rise."

Lightning cracked the sky beyond the skylight. And in its flicker, a new alliance was forged—tentative, unspoken, and brimming with tension.

But it was enough.

For now.