Epilogue—Herald of Storms

"And the storm, once shackled, walked once more among men"

The battlefield was silent.

Not the silence of calm, nor of peace—rather the hollow, ringing quiet left behind when something vast has died. Dust swirled in the air, carrying the acrid tang of scorched stone and lingering corruption. The forest itself seemed dazed, its canopy still trembling from the quake of Lodor’s collapse. Branches sagged, leaves drifted like ash, and in the clearing’s center lay nothing but broken slabs of rock, seeping black mist that thinned with every breath of wind.

Raiden stood in the middle of it all.

Havenbane gleamed faintly in his hand, its edge immaculate despite having cut through mountains. Lightning still danced along his forearm, arcing into the air before dissipating with soft pops. His cloak stirred though the air was still, tugged by unseen gusts that seemed to obey no natural law.

His friends had stopped moving.

Ophelin leaned on her dented shield, her mace dangling slack in her hand, eyes wide in disbelief. Randall’s bow was still half-drawn, though the arrow trembled so violently he could barely hold it steady. Tadari had frozen mid-step, blade dripping with ichor, chest heaving. Liana stood behind them, her staff lowered, runes extinguished; her lips formed words of prayer, though no sound escaped.

Lynda’s wards flickered out one by one, dissolving like motes of silver in the dusk. Her hands dropped to her sides, fingers twitching as though still weaving spells. She was pale, sweat streaking her cheeks, but her gaze never left Raiden.

Grenald, Rad, and Weldin—the veterans—said nothing. Grenald’s ice-forged sword evaporated into mist, his real spear sinking tip-first into the earth as though it too needed to rest. Rad knelt by the wounded, his shield discarded, his body slumped with exhaustion. Weldin’s runes dimmed, his chest rising and falling raggedly, frost still clinging to his shoulders.

All of them, without meaning to, were looking at Raiden.

The storm still clung to him. The boy they had known—awkward, earnest, struggling to keep pace—was gone. What stood in his place was something other, something older, something vast. A warrior whose every breath summoned wind, whose every step bent the air, whose eyes carried the reflection of tempests.

Ophelin whispered it first, hoarse.
“…That’s not Raiden.”

Her words hung in the air like a curse.

Randall swallowed hard. “It’s him,” he said quietly, but even his voice shook. “I know it’s him. But… gods, what is he?”

Raiden lowered Havenbane, its blade humming like a heartbeat in his grip. The wind around him eased, the crackle of lightning fading to faint sparks. Yet the weight of their stares pressed harder than Lodor’s shadow had.

He wanted to speak, to reassure them, to say he was still the same boy who had stumbled through training, who had laughed at Randall’s jests, who had sparred clumsily against Grenald, who had struggled to earn even a nod from Yuka. But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep inside, in the place where his visions had fused with his flesh, he knew—Ophelin was right.

He was Raiden.
And he was not.

A cough broke the silence.

“Get her back,” Grenald rasped. He had Yuka slung over his shoulder, her limp form too light, too still. Her arms were twisted, bones broken where she had parried Lodor’s strikes barehanded. Blood darkened her tunic, though her pale eyes still fluttered faintly open.

Raiden rushed to them, the storm receding enough that he felt clumsy again, too slow, too human. “Is she—?”

“She lives,” Grenald said, voice edged with steel. “Because she fought when none else could.” His gaze flicked to Raiden’s blade, then back to his face. “Because she bought you time to take that.”

Raiden looked down at Yuka. Her lips moved, breath faint. No words formed, but her eyes—still sharp even through pain—locked on him. And in them he saw no accusation, no fear. Only recognition.

Like she had known, somehow, that this was always how it would end.

He bowed his head. “I’ll carry what you gave me,” he whispered.

Grenald shifted Yuka gently onto Rad’s shield, which they fashioned into a makeshift stretcher. Weldin moved to support them, weaving frost over her wounds to slow the bleeding. Together, the three veterans bore her toward the forest’s edge, the rest of the group falling into step around them.

No one spoke.

The silence stretched long as they left the ruins of the battlefield behind, Havenbane still humming in Raiden’s grip, its name echoing like thunder in his chest.

They found Shelen waiting where the forest thinned.

The Keeper of the Border stood tall, her staff rooted into the earth, her silver hair gleaming in moonlight. Her gaze swept over them, lingering on Yuka’s stretcher, then rising to meet Raiden’s.

“You did it,” she said softly. “The mountain has fallen.”

Raiden approached, his steps heavy despite the storm still coiling beneath his skin. His friends hung back, exhausted, unwilling to intrude. For the first time, he could see Shelen clearly—not just as the stoic warden who had stood sentinel, but as something more. Her skin bore faint patterns, like bark woven into flesh. Her eyes gleamed not only with human warmth, but with the verdant glow of deep woods.

Memories stirred.

“…You died,” Raiden whispered, voice breaking. “In Laudenfel. In the forest. I remember—I found you—”

Shelen’s smile was tinged with sorrow. “And yet I stand.” She lifted her staff, its wood entwined with living vines. “Because I was not allowed to die.”

Raiden’s grip on Havenbane tightened. “How?”

“The Empress of the Woods,” Shelen said. “Sonyja. Animus of verdure, of roots and leaf. When my blood soaked the earth, she heard. She answered. She bound me to her people. I am no longer wholly human.” She raised her palm; veins of green light pulsed beneath her skin. “I am Dryad. Half-woman, half-Animus. My soul tied to the trees, my life bound to this forest’s mana. I cannot leave.”

Raiden’s chest tightened. “So you’ve been here… alone?”

Her gaze softened. “Not alone. With the roots. With the leaves. With Sonyja’s whispers. But yes—cut from the world I once walked.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The air smelled of earth and rain, heavy with the weight of truths too vast to measure.

Finally, Raiden exhaled. “…You saved us. Again.”

“No,” Shelen said, shaking her head. “You saved us. You reclaimed Havenbane. You are what prophecy spoke of—not a harbinger of ruin, but the herald of storms. The child born beneath thunder, called not to end the world, but to shield it when calamity rises.”

Her words struck deeper than Lodor’s roar had.

Raiden swallowed hard. “Then what comes next?”

“The storm has only begun,” Shelen said. “Lodor was but a shadow of what once was. The Corruption stirs still. And your path will not end in these woods.” She smiled faintly. “Go, Raiden. Back to your friends. Back to the Academy. Leave the forest to me. My roots will hold what remains.”

Raiden hesitated, then lowered his head. “I’ll return. I swear it.”

“And I will be here,” she said gently. “Always.”

He turned away, the weight of farewell pressing heavy on his chest. Havenbane pulsed once, as though acknowledging the bond left behind.

The return to the Academy was slow.

The gates opened at their approach, guards and faculty flooding out to meet them. Cries rang as they saw the wounded, as they saw Yuka pale and broken, as they saw Raiden—bloodied, lightning still flickering across his shoulders, Havenbane glimmering at his side.

Einfried himself strode forward, his mantle billowing, Aegis still shimmering faintly upon his arm. His eyes took in the stretcher, the battered students, the hardened veterans—then locked on Raiden.

“You slew it,” Einfried said quietly.

Raiden didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Havenbane’s faint hum filled the silence.

The courtyard erupted. Students whispered in awe. Nobles argued in frantic undertones. Faculty exchanged fearful glances. Some called Raiden hero. Others muttered omen.

But amid the storm of voices, his friends drew near.

Randall clapped him on the shoulder, though his grin faltered at the lightning still sparking under his skin. Ophelin stood tall at his other side, her shield dented but lifted proudly, as though daring anyone to challenge his right to stand here. Tadari lingered behind, his eyes sharp, measuring, as though reassessing everything he thought he knew. Liana’s hands glowed faint with healing light, resting on Yuka’s chest as she whispered over her. Lynda stood closest of all, her warding hands trembling, her gaze locked not on Havenbane, but on Raiden himself—as though she could see the storm raging beneath his skin.

Raiden met each of their eyes, one by one. For the first time, he realized—they didn’t just see him. They saw through him. They saw the Legendaire.

And yet, none of them stepped away.

The storm had returned. But it was not his burden alone.

That night, the Academy did not sleep.

Torches burned from the highest towers to the outermost walls, their flames flickering like stars fallen to earth. Courtyards echoed with the tramp of boots, the cries of healers, the hushed mutters of faculty gathered in frantic council.

Word had already spread:

The Mountain had risen.

The Mountain had fallen.

Some whispered Raiden’s name with reverence, the boy who had stood against a giant. Others spat it with unease, a harbinger cloaked in storm, a child wielding a blade that should not exist.

In the infirmary halls, Yuka Olwen lay pale but alive, her arms bound, her chest rising steady under the glow of healing wards. Nobles came and went in silence, bowing heads not out of courtesy, but out of awe.

In the upper chambers, Einfried stood watch beside Aegis, his expression unreadable as reports flooded in from every quarter. The dome of his barrier still shimmered faint above the Academy, faint cracks laced through it like spiderwebs—yet it had held.

And in the courtyard below, Raiden stood alone.

Havenbane was planted in the dirt before him, its edge humming softly, resonating with the breath of the wind. Each gust stirred his cloak, each spark across his skin whispered of storms waiting beyond the horizon.

He had faced Lodor. He had drawn the blade meant to slay gods. He had felt the weight of ten thousand memories crashing into him like waves. He had been Raiden, and he had been something more.

And everyone had seen it.

Ophelin, who muttered through her teeth that she would break the nose of anyone who called him less than human.

Randall, who tried to joke but whose laughter trembled too much.

Liana, who watched him as though seeing a prophecy written in flesh.

Tadari, whose sharp eyes measured him with new caution.

Lynda, who had whispered only his name, as though that alone might anchor him to himself.

Even Grenald, Rad, and Weldin—scarred veterans of Olwen’s retinue—had looked at him not with suspicion, but with something nearer to fear.

The storm had returned.

But it was not finished.

Above the towers, clouds had gathered, drawn not by natural winds but by something older, deeper. The stars were veiled, the moon half-shrouded. Distant thunder rolled, as though echoing his heartbeat.

Raiden lifted his gaze, Havenbane steady in his grip.

Lodor was gone. But Shelen’s warning rang still in his ears.

The Corruption had not ended.

The prophecy was not yet fulfilled.

The storm was only beginning.

And though his friends stood with him, though the Academy endured for now, Raiden felt it in the marrow of his bones:

The next calamity was already moving.

The world would not rest.

And neither would he.