The storm did not arrive from the sky.
It rose from the ground.
Vajrin stood barefoot on the stone platform, eyes closed, breath slow and deliberate. The air around him vibrated—not violently, but with restrained pressure, like thunder held behind clenched teeth.
The training grounds were empty.
They had been cleared an hour ago.
Not by order.
By instinct.
The aether here refused to settle.
Cracks of blue light crawled along the carved runes beneath Vajrin's feet, flaring briefly before dimming again. He did not open his eyes. He didn't need to.
He could feel it.
A pull.
Not from above.
From far away.
His brow tightened slightly.
"…Again," he muttered.
Thunder answered.
Not with sound—but with recognition.
The lightning coiled closer to his skin, brushing his arms like a living thing testing its master's resolve. Vajrin exhaled through his nose and raised one hand slowly, fingers curling as if grasping an unseen thread.
Control.
That had been the lesson drilled into him since the first spark had burned his nerves raw.
Strength was meaningless without it.
The lightning obeyed—barely.
For a moment, his vision flashed white-blue.
Not power.
A presence.
Vajrin's eyes snapped open.
The pressure vanished.
The training runes dimmed completely, leaving only faint scorch marks in the stone. Vajrin lowered his hand slowly, chest rising once as he steadied his breathing.
His heart was pounding.
Not from exertion.
From irritation.
Someone else was growing.
Not here.
Not now.
But close enough to be heard.
"Fire," he said quietly, tasting the word like a challenge.
The resonance wasn't hostile.
That annoyed him more.
Across the grounds, an elder stepped out from the shadow of a pillar, his expression carefully neutral despite the tension still clinging to the air.
"You felt it," the elder said.
Vajrin didn't turn.
"Yes."
"Stronger than before?"
A pause.
"…Cleaner," Vajrin replied.
That earned a reaction.
The elder's eyes narrowed, fingers tightening slightly around the staff in his hand.
"Then the Ashvathar heir corrects his path," the elder murmured. "And the world responds."
Vajrin finally looked back.
"Good," he said, lightning flickering faintly in his gaze. "I'd hate to be the only one improving."
The thunder stirred again—this time not in agitation, but anticipation.
Far away, beyond dungeons and bloodlines and careful restraint, something unseen marked two converging lines.
Fire that learned patience.
Thunder that learned restraint.
And the space between them grew thinner with every passing day.