The news had reached him swiftly—Marco’s rise, Nerios’s hand extended, and whispers of land and sea joining as one. His advisers fretted, warning of a power too great for David’s realm to face alone.
But the king sat upon his throne, lips curled into a thin smile.
“So… the sons of Gerald survive the storm. And one of them has charmed the sea.” His voice was smooth, steady, a quiet tide of menace. “Good. Let them grow. Let them taste victory. It makes the fall that much sweeter.”
A servant approached timidly, bowing low. “My King… General Raiku. He lives. His body broken, his power diminished—but he breathes. With time… and with the craft you allow… he may rise again.”
David’s eyes gleamed. “Yes. Raiku was too useful to waste. If flesh fails him, then we will remake him. Stronger. Sharper. Lightning tempered in iron.”
The chamber doors opened with a low groan, and a chill swept through the room. Frost crept along the stone floor as a tall, lean figure entered, his very aura draining the heat from the air.
He was clad in light blue dragon scale armor, its surface shimmering with a frozen sheen. Upon his head rested a dragon-shaped helmet, its carved maw exhaling faint streams of frost with every breath. His presence alone made the torches gutter, ice crystallizing along the walls.
“Cristóval de la Riva,” David said, his voice carrying a rare note of satisfaction. “My FrostBane.”
The general strode forward, a trail of cold following in his steps. He knelt briefly, though the gesture felt more like a predator lowering itself before striking.
“The seas stir. The lands rally,” David continued, leaning forward in his throne. “But with Raiku soon reforged… and with you at my side… we will break their fragile peace before it ever roots.”
FrostBane lifted his head, the slit of his helmet glowing faintly with icy light. A mist of frost curled from his armor as he spoke, his voice sharp as cracking ice.
“As you command, my king.”
Time moved forward, and for the first time in months, the kingdoms of land and sea were quiet.
The brothers returned to a rhythm of training and study:
- Marco split his days between the castle above and the reefs below, learning Coralyth’s customs, history, and combat alongside Sapphire while returning at dusk to advise his mother and train with his mentors.
- Colby sharpened his command over flame, mastering both the sword and the flickers of King’s Will he had glimpsed in battle. He carried himself more like a ruler now, his presence a steadying force among them.
- Jax disappeared more often than not, though he always returned with whispers—guard movements, noble grumblings, and rumors no councilman dared share aloud.
- Atlas, however, trained harder and longer than them all, his storm-talons cutting the air with restless speed. But beneath each strike lay a growing bitterness.
Every time Marco vanished beneath the tide, Atlas’s jaw tightened. Every time a noble mentioned “peace,” Atlas’s fists curled. And when he caught sight of Nerios’s banners along the coast, he turned away, storm-gray eyes smoldering.
To Atlas, it felt less like peace—and more like surrender.
Father fought for our people. He burned our enemies down and never bent his knee. Why should we? Why should Marco?
One evening, after a grueling training session, Atlas stormed onto the balcony where Colby stood watching the sun sink behind the sea. Sweat clung to Atlas’s brow, his chest rising and falling like the tide itself.
“You see it too, don’t you?” Atlas’s voice was sharp, low. “All this talk of alliances, of sharing what’s ours. Marco swimming around like he’s already Nerios’s son. It’s wrong, Colby. Father’s mistakes… they should stay buried. Not dug up for everyone to pick apart.”
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He gripped the stone railing hard enough for his knuckles to pale. His storm-gray eyes turned to his older brother. “Tell me you agree with me. Tell me I’m not the only one who still remembers who we are.”
Colby leaned against the balcony rail, arms crossed, his firelit eyes fixed on the horizon where the sea swallowed the sun. He let Atlas’s words hang in the air, the younger brother’s storming voice echoing like thunder before a downpour.
Finally, Colby spoke, calm but steady. “You’re not wrong, Atlas. Father’s mistakes should have stayed buried. He fought to protect us, but the way he did it… it scarred more than just our enemies. And now, we’re the ones forced to carry that weight.”
Atlas scoffed, fists tightening. “Exactly. So why let Marco reopen it? Why bow to Nerios and his kingdom like we owe them anything?”
Colby turned, his gaze sharper now, but still measured. “Because ignoring the past doesn’t erase it. Pretending those wounds aren’t there doesn’t make them heal. Marco isn’t bowing—he’s building. And whether we like it or not, the tide chose him for this. We can either fight him… or trust him.”
Atlas’s jaw clenched, his storm-gray eyes flaring with defiance. Colby stepped closer, his tone firmer.
“But hear me, Atlas. Whatever path we take, it only works if we stand together. That’s what Father wanted most of all—that we stay united. Trust between brothers is worth more than crowns, armies, or kingdoms. If we lose that… then we’ve already lost everything.”
Atlas’s chest heaved as he stared at Colby, conflict burning inside him. His hands trembled on the stone railing, his fury like a storm searching for release. Finally, he yanked himself back, muttering, “Fine. I’ll trust him. For now.”
He turned sharply, storming off into the halls, his footsteps echoing hard against the stone. But the tightness in his jaw and the restless fire in his eyes said otherwise—Atlas’s storm had not passed, only grown heavier.
Colby stood alone on the balcony, watching the last sliver of sun sink into the horizon, the sea shimmering with secrets yet to come.
The moon hung low, casting pale light through the forest canopy. Crickets sang in the distance, but their sound was muted beneath the sharp rhythm of blades cutting through air.
In a clearing far from the castle, Atlas moved relentlessly. His Stormtalons whirled with furious speed, slashing through wooden dummies that cracked and splintered beneath his strikes. Each blow was harder than the last, his chest heaving, sweat mixing with the faint sparks of lightning that flared with every motion.
He stopped only to drag another dummy into place, his storm-gray eyes dark and restless.
I can’t sleep. I can’t just sit there while Marco plays diplomat. While everyone nods and smiles like peace will save us. Father fought. He bled. And now we’re supposed to bend?
He struck again, the dummy shattering into shards.
“You’ll break them all before you find answers.”
Atlas spun, blades raised, only to find Elias standing at the edge of the clearing. The older man leaned casually on his cane, his sharp eyes catching the moonlight, though his presence was almost ghostly quiet for someone his age.
Atlas’s shoulders tensed, but he lowered his weapons. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people, old man.”
Elias smirked faintly. “And you shouldn’t let your thoughts keep you awake at night. But here we are.”
He stepped closer, tapping the cane against the ground. “So tell me, young king-to-be. What troubles you?”
Atlas sank down on a broken log, Stormtalons resting at his side. His chest still rose and fell from training, but the storm in his eyes hadn’t faded. He stared at the dirt, jaw tight, before finally letting the words escape.
“I don’t trust it,” he muttered. “Marco’s path. This peace with Coralyth. Everyone acts like it’s the answer we’ve been waiting for, but all I see is weakness. Father fought to keep us strong. He bled so we wouldn’t have to bend to anyone. And now Marco… Marco’s ready to wear their crown?”
His voice cracked sharper. “How do we even know he’s right for this? Because the sea whispered to him? Because Nerios said so? And what about me? About us? I don’t even know if I want to rule anymore. Not like this. Not if it means bowing to people who should still fear us.”
Atlas gritted his teeth, fists tightening until his knuckles paled. “Maybe Marco was chosen, maybe Colby’s already a better king than I’ll ever be. But me? I was born to fight, not to sit in councils and nod to nobles who hate us anyway.”
Elias stepped closer, his cane tapping lightly against the ground. His sharp eyes studied Atlas—not with scorn, but with a clarity that stripped away pretense.
“You speak as though ruling is a prize,” Elias said quietly. “It’s not. It’s a burden. And the strongest rulers are often the ones who never wanted the throne at all.”
Atlas looked up sharply, but Elias raised a hand. “You’re right to question Marco. You’re right to doubt diplomacy. Doubt keeps a king honest. But be careful, Atlas—resentment can eat a man faster than any enemy blade. Your father didn’t fight just to make people fear him. He fought to make sure his sons had choices he never did.”
Atlas turned his head, his storm still restless, but Elias’s words stuck.
After a moment of silence, Elias leaned closer, lowering his voice. “The council is sending a small convoy at dawn. Trusted men, quiet and quick. Their task is to ride to the neighboring allied villages, to listen, to see how they’re reacting to the news of Coralyth.”
He tapped his cane lightly on the dirt. “It will be dangerous work, but it’s the only way to know if Marco’s peace is taking root—or if enemies are already sharpening their blades.” His gaze cut sharper. “If your storm needs direction, Atlas… maybe you should follow it there.”