The rain came softly, for once.
It whispered across the tiled roofs of Stormgrave like a lullaby composed by thunderclouds. No lightning, no wind—only the cold scent of iron and old stone.
Arthur stood outside the Moonspine Library, where the tower's upper windows glowed with golden firelight. Few were allowed up there. Fewer still dared go uninvited.
But he was expected.
He climbed the spiraling stairs in silence. Not the stride of a warrior—but the measured tread of a son.
The door was already open when he reached the top.
Bookshelves taller than spears lined the circular chamber. Stacks of scrolls, ancient tomes, and codices bound in monster hide crowded the reading desks. The scent of ink, old parchment, and lavender filled the air.
And at the center, seated beneath a curving arch of stained-glass runes, was his mother.
She wore scholar's robes—deep crimson threaded with black—and a circlet of silver etched in an unknown script. Her hair was tied in a long braid, streaked with time's touch. A single lens sat over her left eye, glowing faintly as it fed her visions from the ink-bound world.
"Close the door, Arthur."
He did. It was the first time they had been alone since the Codex had awakened.
She did not speak right away.
Instead, she closed the tome she'd been reading—The Last Oathbearers of the Astral Rebellion, judging by the sigil—and removed the lens from her eye. When she looked at him now, it was not as a historian. Not as a strategist.
As a mother.
"You've grown again," she said, gently.
Arthur managed a smile. "Or the halls have shrunk."
She stood and crossed the chamber, her presence quiet but commanding.
"You always wore this place like a cloak," she said. "Even when you were young. You'd sneak in to look at the battle maps. Not the ones with colors or armies—just the old, faded ones. The ones no one remembered."
Arthur didn't answer.
She studied his face for a long moment, then gently cupped his cheek.
"I know what your father has asked of you."
He nodded. "Do you agree with it?"
Her fingers dropped. She stepped past him toward the window, where the stormlight bled through stained glass.
"It doesn't matter. The Codex has made its choice, and now the world will answer it. I can't stop that."
"But you don't think I'm ready."
"I think," she said, "that you will never be ready for the weight of a world that judges gods and mortals alike. But I also think readiness has nothing to do with courage."
Arthur waited.
She turned, and her voice dropped lower—gentler, but deeper.
"I did not come from this path," she said. "The sword and shield are your father's legacy. But mine… mine was different. In my homeland, we studied truths hidden behind myths. We pulled meaning from bloodlines, memory, and lost languages. We didn't march. We remembered."
She reached to the table and lifted a small object wrapped in old silk.
It was a pendant—simple, glassy black with silver veins that pulsed ever so faintly.
"This is from the Echomire, my birthplace. It resonates not with power, but presence. It holds memory. Mine. Yours. This house's. And something else…"
She pressed it into his hand.
"…something watching."
Arthur studied it. The surface was cool, but not dead. It felt… attentive.
"What is it?"
"Not a weapon," she said. "But not nothing. Keep it close. It will respond when you need reminding of who you are—not as a Vaelstrom. As you."
He closed his fist around it.
"Thank you."
She stepped forward, then embraced him.
And for a moment—just a moment—the storms fell quiet.
⚔️ Later That Night – The Road Begins
Stormgrave's gates did not creak.
They groaned like the lungs of a titan waking from old slumber. Torches flared as the procession formed—five wagons, twenty horsemen, and a forward scout band. It was not a grand retinue. But it was a trusted one.
Arthur stood in full armor, not ceremonial—real. Steel darkened with storm-oil, shoulder-plates shaped in the Vaelstrom crescent, sword at his side, pendant beneath his cloak.
Aurelia stood nearby, expression unreadable. Calden adjusted his saddle with quiet approval.
And then came Arcturus, flanked by two banner-knights, stepping forward one final time.
"You represent more than yourself now," the Duke said. "But never forget the core. You are a Knight. Not a symbol. Not a myth. Remember what that means when others try to make you more."
Arthur saluted, then mounted.
The gates opened.
And for the first time in his life, Arthur Vaelstrom left Stormgrave.
The world, vast and sleeping, turned its gaze slowly toward a single rider wrapped in cold steel and silent oathlight.