The storm came early that night.
Not with warning bells or distant thunder, but with a sudden, crushing weight that pressed down on the Blackridge frontier like the sky itself had decided to fall. Rain tore from the clouds in violent sheets, drenching the land within seconds. Wind howled through the ravines, dragging loose gravel and broken branches along with it.
Rhaegar Ion ran.
His boots slipped on wet stone as he stumbled toward the edge of the ravine, lungs burning, chest tight with every shallow breath. Blood streamed down the side of his face, warm and slick, blurring the world into streaks of gray and red. His left shoulder screamed in agony—dislocated, maybe broken—but pain was a luxury he could not afford.
Behind him, voices cut through the rain.
"Don't lose him!"
"He's injured—finish it!"
Five figures emerged from the storm, their silhouettes framed by flashes of lightning. Leather armor. Steel blades. On their cloaks, stitched in dull black thread, was the sigil of a hunting hound crowned with thorns.
The Thorn Hounds.
Mercenaries.
They did not chase for honor. They chased for payment.
Rhaegar reached the ravine's edge and skidded to a halt. The drop below was sheer—jagged stone disappearing into darkness, the sound of rushing water echoing from somewhere far beneath. If he jumped, the fall would kill him just as surely as the blades behind him.
The rain hammered down harder, soaking his torn clothes, plastering dark hair to his face. He turned slowly, forcing his trembling legs to hold.
The mercenaries spread out, calm and methodical, as if they had all the time in the world.
"You're persistent," their leader said, voice smooth beneath the storm. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his sword resting casually on one armored shoulder. "Most people break before making it this far."
Rhaegar laughed—a hoarse, broken sound that surprised even himself.
"Guess I'm hard to get rid of," he said.
One of the mercenaries scoffed. "You're nothing. No clan. No talent. No awakened bloodline. You should've died quietly in the mines like the rest of your kind."
Rhaegar's jaw tightened.
He had spent three years in those mines. Three years choking on dust, his hands raw and bleeding, watching people stronger than him rise while he remained invisible. In this world, power was everything. Those without it were tools—disposable ones.
The only reason he had run was the object hanging beneath his shirt.
The cracked stone pendant.
The last thing his mother had ever given him.
The reason the Thorn Hounds were here.
"Hand over the pendant," the leader said, eyes narrowing. "We'll make this quick."
Rhaegar's fingers closed around the stone through the fabric. It pulsed faintly, warm against his skin, as it always did during storms.
"No," he said.
The leader sighed. "Unfortunate."
He moved.
The world exploded into motion. A blade slashed toward Rhaegar's neck—too fast. He ducked on instinct, the edge slicing through his hair instead. Another mercenary came from the side. A kick slammed into Rhaegar's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs and sending him crashing into the mud.
Pain flared white-hot.
He rolled, barely avoiding a sword that buried itself inches from his face. Rain filled his mouth as he gasped, coughing, trying to rise.
Too slow.
Too weak.
A boot crushed down on his back, forcing him flat against the ground. Mud pressed into his cheek. The cold seeped into his bones.
The leader's blade rested between Rhaegar's shoulder blades.
"This is where it ends," the man said calmly. "You were born wrong. Don't blame us for correcting that."
Rhaegar's hands dug into the earth, fingers shaking.
He thought of the mines. Of the countless nights he had stared at the ceiling, wondering if his life would ever mean anything.
He thought of his mother's voice, soft and fading, telling him to run when the sky calls.
"No," he whispered.
The sky answered.
Thunder detonated overhead—deafening, immediate. The ground shook. The mercenaries froze, instinctively looking up.
The pendant burned.
Not warm—searing.
"What is this?" someone shouted.
Lightning fell.
Not a wandering bolt, not a distant strike, but a pillar of blinding white-blue light that tore straight down from the heavens and slammed into the ravine. Sound vanished. Vision dissolved into pure radiance.
Rhaegar screamed.
Agony ripped through him, violent and absolute. It felt as though his bones were shattering and reforming at the same time, his blood igniting, his nerves unraveling. His heart seized—and then thundered back to life, stronger, faster.
He should have died.
Anyone else would have.
But the lightning did not destroy him.
It claimed him.
Darkness swallowed the world.
Rhaegar stood beneath an endless sky.
No ground. No horizon. Only storm.
Lightning stretched across the void like veins of living light. Thunder moved with purpose, not as sound, but as law. The air was heavy with intent, vast and ancient.
Something observed him.
Not with eyes.
With judgment.
Compatibility detected.
The voice was not loud, nor soft. It simply was.
Rhaegar tried to move, to speak, but he had no body—only awareness.
Bloodline: Dormant.
Soul Integrity: Critical.
Assessment: Eligible.
Eligible for what?
Initiating awakening sequence.
Heavenly Lightning Legacy—fragmentary state.
Pain returned, sharper than before, but now it carried structure—direction.
Synchronization…
1%
2%
3%
The storm responded.
Lightning no longer felt hostile. It felt familiar, as if it had always been waiting.
Legacy accepted.
Heavenly Lightning Law: Bound.
The sky shattered.
Rhaegar gasped awake.
Rain slammed into his face. He sucked in air desperately, coughing as mud filled his mouth. His body convulsed, then stilled.
He was alive.
The ravine was scorched. Stone walls were cracked and blackened, etched with glassy scars where lightning had kissed the earth. The smell of ozone and burned metal hung thick in the air.
The Thorn Hounds lay scattered across the ground.
None of them moved.
Rhaegar pushed himself up slowly. Pain still lingered, but beneath it was something else—heat, coiled deep within his chest, restrained only by instinct.
His hands trembled. Faint sparks danced across his skin before vanishing into the rain.
"What… happened?" he whispered.
No voice answered.
But something settled inside him, silent and undeniable.
Heavenly Lightning Legacy: Active
Synchronization: 3%
Status: Unstable
The information did not appear before his eyes. It etched itself directly into his awareness.
Rhaegar laughed softly, breathless.
"I survived."
The rain continued to fall. The storm rumbled above, quieter now—watchful.
Rhaegar rose to his feet. Every movement felt different, sharper, as if the world had slowed just enough for him to notice its flaws.
If this power was real, then so were the rules that had crushed him.
And rules could be broken.
He looked up at the storm-dark sky.
"If you chose me," he said hoarsely, "then I won't crawl anymore."
Thunder rolled in response.
Not as a threat.
But as acknowledgment.
End of Chapter 1