The wind came for Kael Thornwind before he even set foot within the ancient archway of Skyreach Keep. He had thought, in the blazing heart of Pyrrhus's furnaces, that fire's scorch would be the fiercest trial he faced—but as he crested the cliff's lip and saw the white stones of the citadel trembling in a gale, he realized wind bore its own cruel crucible. His heart thudded against his ribs like a trapped bird as he tightened his cloak and made his way through the gate, where two sentinels—weather-beaten veterans of the wind—watched him with steely eyes.
"Enough forging," the taller of the two growled, his voice nearly lost in the roaring gale. "Now you learn to bend wind to blade." He gestured toward the Hall of Aeris, where the Trial by Wind took place. Kael nodded once, feeling the shard's pulse beneath his tunic like a second heartbeat. He stepped past the sentinels and into history.
Inside, the hall was a cavern of echoing stone, its arched ceiling carved with runes that twisted like vortices. Wind shrieked through the ribbed windows, stirring flags and banners until they snapped like whips. Torches flared and guttered against the draft, casting dancing shadows that rippled over a polished floor strewn with petals of white ash. Beneath those petals lay the test: a single, slender blade, forged of starlit iron and bound in ember-forged runes, pointing skyward from its hilt. This was the Windblade, the unparalleled weapon of Skyreach Keep, tempered in storms and awaiting its rightful bearer.
Kael's breath caught. He had held the Emberforge Hammer and stood before the Ember Wraith; he had awakened his core amid breaking mirrors. But this blade seemed to vibrate with living breath. As he drew closer, the air around it shimmered, as though the sky itself warred with the earth for its claim. He forced his trembling legs forward until he stood before the Windblade's hilt. His reflection stared back at him in the polished pommel: a farmhand turned Adept, face streaked with ash and determination, eyes alight with starlit fire.
"Place your hand on the hilt," boomed a voice above him, echoing from unseen lips. Kael obeyed, wrapping his fingers around the cool metal. A shock of exhilaration sang through his veins, and he closed his eyes, attuning himself to the blade's song. The wind answered with a low hum that matched his heartbeat. He inhaled, tasting salt and ozone, and allowed the aether to flow from his core into the blade, awakening its runes.
With a sudden gasp, Kael felt the hall dissolve into motion. The floor began to tilt, as though the citadel had sprouted wings and soared. Wind twisted around him, turning the ash petals into a spinning whirlwind. He stumbled backward, but the blade's pull anchored him. He gripped it tighter, letting starfire mingle with gusts in his palm. The runes on the hilt flared: lines of pale blue cutting across the burnished steel.
The wind's roar became a voice. It spoke in a language older than stones. Prove your worth. Bend or be broken. Kael's eyes snapped open. He steadied his breath and whispered an invocation: Wind… heed my call.
In that instant, the hall's shifting floor froze. The howling winds contracted into a tight vortex above the blade, like a living crown of stormclouds. Ash-laden gusts slammed against Kael's back, almost tearing him off his feet. He grunted, leaning into the gale, channeling the Star Imprint's calm and the Ember Imprint's forge-born strength through his core. The blade resonated, its runes glimmering as they absorbed the winds' raw fury.
From the eye of the vortex, a figure stepped forth: a woman of wind and cloud, her hair streaming like white banners, eyes of lightning. She regarded Kael with neither malice nor favor, as impartial as the breeze itself. "Why do you claim this blade?" she asked, her voice the sibilant hiss of gusts.
Kael held the hilt firmly, meeting her gaze. "To protect," he said. "To guard those without strength. To unite star and ember and wind against darkness."
The wind-wraith—Aeris, Guardian of the Gale—cocked her head. "Words are feathers," she said, "light and easily scattered. Show me your resolve."
Withdrawing the blade, Kael raised it overhead. The winds recoiled, then pounded the Hall's walls in defiance. Ash and dust swirled at his boots. He took a step forward, planting his feet like roots, and pointed the blade at an empty corner. Come, he willed. The winds answered—a torrent shot forth, howling like a beast unleashed—and the blade arced through it. The runes along its edge ignited in starlit fire, parting the gale like water cleaves at rocks, carving a luminous path through the storm.
Aeris's laughter cracked like thunder. "Confidence," she breathed, eyes dancing. "But hollow if not tempered by humility." She extended a hand. The winds twisted into a massive funnel, churning like a funnel cloud just beyond the blade's tip. "Stop it," she challenged. "Hold the gale in your grasp."
Kael's chest heaved. He slid the blade's tip into the swirling vortex and grounded himself deeper. He tasted blood and sweat and ash on his tongue. Memories flickered—Marla's encouraging smile, Rorin's quiet faith, Seraphine's stern but caring eyes—and he rooted his resolve in them. He let the Star's calm and the Ember's heart of flame merge: a still point within raging storms. He whispered, "Be still."
Slowly, the gale bowed to his will. The funnel shrank, its thunderous howl dwindling to a sigh. The winds dissipated back into the torches' flicker. The floor righted itself, petals drifting to unmoving ground. Kael's legs shook as he released the blade, but he remained upright.
Aeris studied him. The hilt glowed faintly in his grasp. Her windformed shape began to waver. "You have bound the gale," she said softly. "Yet true mastery lies in knowing when to unleash it and when to let it roam free."
Kael straightened, flicking ash from his cloak. "I understand." His voice faltered with exhaustion, but also with pride. The wind had tested him—and yielded.
Aeris's eyes softened. She reached through the dissolving vortex and touched his shoulder. A whisper of wind brushed his ear. Humility tends the flame and soothes the storm. Remember this. Then she melted into mist, and the Hall of Aeris stood empty but for Kael and the Windblade, now still as any sword in its scabbard.
He exhaled, bowing his head in silent thanks. The runes on the hilt dimmed to a gentle glow. With a steady hand, Kael returned the blade to its stand. As he did, the sentinels at the hall's entrance descended: the lean woman with silver braid, the other in polished armor. They pressed forward, voices brimming with respect.
"You have proven yourself, Adept," the braided sentinel said. "The Windblade is yours to bear. May its winds guard your path."
The armor-clad guard produced a slender scabbard of polished ebony. She slid the blade into it, then handed it to Kael. "Wield it wisely."
Kael took the Windblade with solemn reverence, its weight perfect in his hand. He buckled the scabbard at his waist, feeling the convergence of star, ember, and wind thrum in unison where the blade rested. He raised his gaze to the narrow window, where stormclouds gathered like spectators. Beyond them lay Terra and Pyrrhus and realms yet unseen. With this blade, he carried a piece of Zephyrus's heart.
Moments later, Kael emerged into the courtyard, greeted by the hush of smiths and guards who had paused their work to witness his triumph. Marla and Rorin hovered at the edge of the crowd, their faces alight with pride. Kael hurried to them, flashing a weary but triumphant grin.
"It answered," he said to Marla, voice rough. "The Windblade answered my call."
Marla reached up, trailing a finger along the hilt. "It is beautiful."
Rorin let out a deep laugh, slapping Kael's back. "And deadly. Don't forget to feed your sword as much as the storm."
Kael rested a hand on Rorin's shoulder. "I won't."
The braided sentinel approached once more. "Your next path lies west, across the border into Aquaria," she informed him. "There, the depth-trial awaits in the Labyrinth of Tides. But first—rest. The trial's cost is steep."
Kael nodded, fatigue pulling at his limbs like anchors. He let Marla guide him toward the small lodging quarters set aside for adepts. With each step, he felt the blade's pulse alongside his own, a steady echo of wind's heartbeat. In the weeks ahead, fire and wind and star would test him again, but tonight he would sleep with the Windblade by his side, dreams of stormclouds dancing in his head.
As the sun dipped toward the western spires of Skyreach Keep, Kael Thornwind closed the door to his chamber, wind rattling the shutters. On the bedside table lay the Emberforge Hammer, the starshard, and the Windblade's scabbard—symbols of trials survived and victories earned. He lay back on his cot, exhaustion embracing him like a warm cloak. In that quiet moment before sleep, the Hall of Aeris's vaulted wind whispered one last promise: Rise again, Adept, for the world's breath awaits.
And with that, Kael allowed darkness to claim him, heart thrumming with the storms still to come.