The door did not open with a roar or blaze of light. It groaned—slow, heavy, like a mountain shifting in its sleep.
Arthur stepped from the Stormvault into the grey half-light of Stormgrave.
The air outside felt colder. Sharper. As though the forge inside the mountain had burned some barrier out of him. Behind him, the vault door sealed shut with the hiss of old metal and oaths. No light leaked through it. Only the silence of something ancient, now stirred.
Dozens waited in the corridor.
Knights. Retainers. Half-armored squires. Not a single one spoke.
Some stood at rigid attention, eyes uncertain but respectful. Others simply watched, like soldiers glimpsing a relic returned from myth. Arthur said nothing as he passed them. He wasn't sure what he could say.
He felt… steady. Heavier, but not burdened. As if something within him had settled for the first time.
"You were in there two days," came a voice from the side.
Sir Calden. Broad-shouldered, iron-eyed, and grey at the temples. He'd trained Arthur since he could lift a blade.
Arthur blinked. "Was I?"
Calden's face remained unreadable. "Aye. You walked in a squire. Now the Codex remembers you."
Then, without ceremony, Calden dropped to one knee.
A sharp intake of breath followed. And then, others followed. One by one. Some knelt. Others bowed their heads in silence. Even the armsmistress, known for favoring no heir, gave a nod that bore the weight of recognition.
The silence of awe was louder than applause.
Arthur didn't bow in return. He simply stood still. The Codex had answered—but not like the old tales said it would. There was no blinding sigil, no divine mark scorched onto his chest. Only an **Oath** spoken into the void… and something that had listened.
Something that still watched.
---
They didn't celebrate.
Not openly. Not in Stormgrave.
By the time Arthur entered the citadel proper, the tension in the keep had thickened. Word traveled fast here. Too fast. Whispers grew on stone faster than roots through soil.
**Lady Aurelia**, Keeper of the Codex Flame, waited for him outside the audience hall.
"The Ashspire flickered," she said. "First time in three hundred years."
Arthur frowned. "What is it?"
"You'll learn. For now, your father waits."
She stepped aside. The great door of the Stone Hall opened.
---
Duke Arcturus Vaelstrom stood at the far end, beneath the hanging banners of the Stormwrought Lineage. His armor gleamed dimly in the stormlight, black as volcanic glass, trimmed in silver wire forged from oath-bound iron.
He did not sit on a throne. He stood, one hand resting on the hilt of a sword older than most empires.
Arthur stopped five paces away and saluted.
"You're not the same," the Duke said after a long pause.
"I don't feel the same."
"You shouldn't."
A quiet moment passed between them. Not as father and son—but as bearer to bearer, lineage to legacy.
"You're leaving," Arcturus said.
Arthur's brow furrowed. "Already?"
"There is no time for comfort. You've stirred something. The Codex flare was felt beyond these walls. The Ashspire trembled. The Imperium's seers have seen. There will be movement. Eyes will turn to us—some reverent, some jealous, some sharp."
Arthur listened. He felt it too. The storm had shifted.
"You're being sent to **Broken Stone**. A border keep. You'll command a small unit—knights, scribes, maybe a Forgebound retainer or two. You'll learn diplomacy. Logistics. Command. It's far enough that no knife will reach you easily. But close enough that you'll see how the world truly works."
Arthur nodded slowly.
"It's not exile," the Duke added. "It's a test. And a shield."
He turned toward the tall window behind him, where the storms curled like black serpents over the peaks.
"You bear the Codex's mark now—even if you can't see it. And the world will measure you by what it imagines you might become. Remember that."
"I will."
"I hope so." Arcturus's voice lowered, barely audible now. "Because if you fail... they will not punish you. They will punish our House."
---
The corridor outside was silent.
The storm sang overhead—long, deep rumbles between lightning arcs. The fortress watched him now. Even the walls seemed to listen.
Arthur made his way to the old parapet overlooking the training grounds. He needed air. Sky. Space to think.
He was not alone.
**Caelum** stood there, leaning against the balustrade. Not in armor—never had liked it. He wore a dark wool cloak and a loose shirt, arms crossed, hair tied back in his usual no-nonsense way. He looked like a strategist even when doing nothing.
"You woke it," Caelum said, without turning.
Arthur stopped beside him. "You heard."
"Everyone heard."
They stood in silence for a moment. The kind only brothers could hold comfortably.
"You missed my rite," Arthur said quietly.
Caelum smirked faintly. "I didn't miss it. I left before it began."
Arthur gave him a sideways look.
"You know how I feel about rituals. Yours made more sense. You walked in, swore something no one else could hear, and came out different. Better than some fool kneeling before candles."
Arthur said nothing.
Caelum continued, "Father's sending you out."
"Yes."
"I would too. You're dangerous now. Not because of what you did. Because of what others will believe you can do."
Arthur glanced at him. "Would you have stayed, if you knew?"
Caelum finally turned, his gaze sharp but steady.
"I'll always be where I'm needed. For House Vaelstrom. For Father. For you."
That was Caelum—never dramatic. Never loud. But when he spoke, you remembered it.
The wind curled around them, carrying the scent of rain and cold iron.
"I'll see you again," Arthur said.
"You better." Caelum's mouth twitched. "I just polished your damn sword."
---