Title:THE GATHERING STORM
891 Words
Episode 3: **The Gathering Storm**
The tournament hall thundered with cheers and clashing steel.
Spectators leaned over marble balconies, shouting names, tossing coins, and betting their fortunes away. Beneath it all, the masked nobility whispered secrets into their goblets — a dance of power hidden beneath velvet and lace.
Kalen Dravik moved through the chaos like a ghost, unseen yet seeing all.
His target tonight wasn't to win glory or applause — it was to unravel the House of Maevryn from within. And he had just spotted his first thread.
Vera Moonfall watched him from across the hall, sipping wine from a crystal flute, her smile as lazy as a cat’s. But her eyes — sharp, glittering — missed nothing.
When Kalen finally approached her, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t bow. Didn't even blink.
Most would have.
Instead, Vera turned her head slightly, as if granting him permission to speak.
"Enjoying the festivities?" Kalen asked, voice low, carrying just enough false politeness to pass among the highborn.
Vera's smile widened.
"I find tournaments dull," she said, voice silky. "Too much muscle. Not enough mind." Her gaze raked over him, assessing, weighing. "But you... you look like you know the difference."
Kalen said nothing. The silence stretched — a test, perhaps. Vera tilted her head, intrigued.
Around them, the tournament raged. Silas Ventor was dancing through a mock battle, defeating a much larger opponent with effortless, surgical precision. His polite nod after victory drew respectful applause.
Cassian Vale fought next — warm, smiling even as he disarmed his opponent with a dazzling spin, offering a hand to help him up. The crowd adored him instantly.
Kalen's eyes flicked to the boys, then back to Vera.
"You came here for something," Vera said quietly, stepping closer so their conversation would be masked by the noise. Her perfume smelled faintly of dark roses and danger. "And it wasn’t the wine."
Kalen offered a small, hollow smile. "We all want something."
Vera's green eyes gleamed.
"And what do you want, stranger?"
Kalen's mind raced. He could lie — tell her he was a minor noble seeking fortune, an obscure scholar studying martial forms, anything. But something about Vera Moonfall told him lies would not hold her for long.
"Opportunity," he said simply.
Vera laughed, low and delighted.
"Wise answer," she purred. "And dangerous."
She drained the rest of her wine, placed the glass on a passing servant’s tray, and leaned in, voice almost inaudible.
"Careful, dark one. The House of Maevryn has enemies sharper than blades. And they don't forgive easily."
With a last mischievous glance, she drifted away into the crowd, disappearing like smoke.
Kalen watched her go, a strange knot tightening in his chest.
Later, as the tournament wound down, a new event caught the crowd’s attention.
A group of commoners had been allowed entrance for a final, public contest — a brutal free-for-all with a prize for whoever survived the longest.
It was a cruel joke to the nobility. Entertainment. But Kalen’s attention sharpened when he saw one figure step forward into the ring.
A girl — teenage, slight, trembling — dressed in rough clothes, her dark hair tied back messily.
At first glance, she seemed wildly out of place — fragile, almost laughable among the bruisers and cutthroats.
But Kalen’s eyes narrowed.
Something shimmered around her. A flicker of power. Hidden, struggling, raw.
**Mira Lorne.**
No one announced her name. No one cheered. Most spectators jeered or threw scraps at her.
Mira tightened her fists and stepped into the bloodstained ring anyway.
Kalen folded his arms, curious despite himself.
The brawlers charged.
Mira moved.
Not with strength — with speed, with instinct. She ducked, twisted, rolled under wild punches. Her fists struck in strange angles, turning the brutes' strength against them. When a man twice her size grabbed her, she whispered something — and he recoiled as if burned.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't polished. But it was **magic** — old, desperate, beautiful.
Kalen leaned forward slightly.
At the edges of the crowd, he noticed Silas Ventor and Cassian Vale watching too — Cassian clenching the rail in concern, Silas narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.
Mira fought with everything she had — heart, bone, blood.
And when she finally stood alone in the ring, panting and bruised but victorious, the nobles offered only stunned, reluctant applause.
Later, as Mira slipped away into the kitchens, Kalen followed silently.
He found her in a dark corridor, clutching a small coin purse — her prize — with shaking hands. Tears welled in her eyes, though she stubbornly blinked them back.
Before he could speak, a voice interrupted.
"Impressive," said Silas, stepping out of the shadows. Cassian followed behind, tossing Mira a clean cloth for her split lip.
"You fought like someone who doesn't know how to quit," Cassian said warmly.
Mira stared at them both, mistrustful, confused — but also desperately lonely.
Kalen watched the exchange from deeper in the shadows, hidden.
Something stirred inside him again. Not duty. Not strategy.
Something painfully human.
He turned away before they could notice him, vanishing back into the depths of the manor.
The night wasn’t over. The real games — the real betrayals — had only just begun.
But for the first time in years, Kalen Dravik felt something he thought long dead.
**Hope.**
**[End of Episode 3]**
- Writer
