The sun was dipping low over Ashford Heath, casting long shadows across the quiet village. Robert trudged up the cobblestone path to his home, his cane tapping a steady, bitter rhythm against the stone. The forge loomed silent beside the house, its stillness a rebuke to the day's failures.

  The slam of the door reverberated through the house, shaking loose dust from the rafters.

  Inside, Robert leaned his cane against the desk and slumped into his chair. His head sank into his hands, his elbows resting on the desk as if to hold up the weight of his thoughts.

  The silence in the room was oppressive, save for the faint whistle of the wind outside, rattling a loose shutter. For a moment, he sat motionless, his scarred hand dragging down his face. The echoes of Helia's words rang in his ears. "Your Michael's a sluggish little dreamer, Robert. We can't work miracles with what you've handed us."

  It hadn't burned like this in decades—not since the war's fires had scarred him numb—but her insult seared his chest like hot iron. Worse still was the pity in the villagers' eyes, shrinking from him as though he were some mad relic of a bygone age.

  He had killed men for less back then. Commanded squads who trusted his iron will, who lived or died by his orders. He had shaped battlefields. Now he was a ghost here, tolerated for old deeds, mocked by those who'd never bled.

  Robert's jaw clenched as he pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved a bottle of whiskey. The amber liquid gleamed in the dim light as he poured himself a measure, the act steadying his shaking hands. He drank deeply, the burn spreading through his chest, but it did nothing to cool the fire raging inside him.

  The house creaked faintly in the wind, and he stared at the desk, his thoughts racing.

  All for what? He had sacrificed, bled, and suffered to give this village the luxury of peace—and what had it bred? Cowards. Complacency. People like Mistress Helia, who hadn't so much as seen a battlefield, daring to scorn his son's strength.

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  His grip on the glass tightened.

  The slam of the cane against the desk startled even himself, the glass top shuddering under the impact. He grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, driving the nib into the inkpot with unnecessary force.

  Ardan Gale-Warden,

  The name steadied him. He had known Ardan in another life—a life where his actions had been significant, his choices shaping the fate of others. Ardan, the zephyr master, had been both a warrior and a force of nature, taming wind and chaos with equal precision.

  If anyone could help Michael, it was him.

  Old friend, Robert began, the nib scratching furiously at the paper.

  I write to you with a heavy heart. The village I settled in has grown soft. Its people would rather raise children ignorant of danger than teach them the strength to withstand it. My son, Michael, has inherited a gift that I cannot teach him to master. He needs guidance, Ardan. He needs someone who understands the weight of power—and what it takes to wield it.

  The words poured out, fueled by anger and frustration.

  This place is blind to what lies beyond its borders. They believe rules and words will save them from the storms to come. But we've seen those storms before, and we know better. If this village is to survive, if my boy is to survive, I need your help. If you still have your academy or your influence, send someone—or come yourself.

  He paused, staring at the half-filled whiskey glass, his scarred hand blotting a stray drop of ink on the page. Memories of Ardan's mastery over the wind flashed in his mind: the control, the precision, the strength that had turned tides and shattered lines.

  I offer five swords, three shields, two cutlasses, and a helm in exchange for your time and tutelage.

  His hand trembled slightly as he finished.

  Do not let my son flounder in this quiet, suffocating peace. Help him become something that no storm can break.

  Your friend,

  Robert of Ashford Heath - February 10, 1287

  He folded the letter and sealed it with wax, the quiet scrape of the chair filling the room as he stood. Outside, the wind howled softly, tugging at the loose shutter, as if waiting for him to act.

  Tomorrow, the letter would go out. There were no guarantees it would reach Ardan, or that he would answer. But it was the only chance Robert had to give Michael—and perhaps the village itself—a fighting chance.

  He drained the rest of the whiskey and blew out the candle. Sitting in the dark, he stared out the window at the forge's dim outline. I cannot fail him again, he thought, the words a vow etched in the silence.