The next morning, the valley was cloaked in mist. The blue fire from Maelor's camp had burned out, leaving only faint runes glowing on the cavern walls. Kael awoke to find the old man standing before him, balanced on his staff as if it were a part of him.
"Rise, boy," Maelor said, his tone almost bored. "The dragon within you has teeth, but no claws. Let's see if it remembers how to strike."
Kael stood, feeling the silver energy coil beneath his skin. Lira watched silently from the cave's mouth, her expression caught between worry and awe.
Without warning, Maelor slammed his staff into the ground. The air rippled—and suddenly the cavern filled with shifting illusions. Smoke became beasts. Shadows twisted into blades. Every heartbeat echoed like thunder.
"Focus!" Maelor's voice boomed. "Magic isn't strength—it's will. If the storm owns your heart, you'll drown in it."
Kael gritted his teeth and thrust out his palm. Silver fire burst forward, tearing through the illusions—but another wave replaced them instantly. He faltered, the weight of power threatening to crush him.
Lira shouted from the sidelines. "Kael, stop fighting it! Feel it—control it!"
Her voice cut through the chaos. Kael took a breath, then another. The flames steadied, shrinking into a silver glow that pulsed around him like living armor.
Maelor smiled faintly, eyes glinting.
"Ah… the ember learns to burn without devouring. Good. Remember this, boy—power that serves no purpose becomes ruin."
Kael dropped to his knees, exhausted but alive. His hands trembled, and the faint outline of scales shimmered on his skin before fading.
Maelor turned toward the valley beyond the mist.
"You've begun to wake the blood. But beware—every spark draws the eye of darkness. And the one who rules it has already turned to face you."
Far in the Dark Valley's heart, the Demon Ruler's laughter echoed faintly on the wind.