The wind changed before the warning came.
Aran felt it first—a shift in the way the air moved across the stone path beneath their feet. What had been dry desert wind now carried moisture and chill, a whisper of storms yet unseen. He slowed, hand tightening on the hilt of his blade.
They had left the Pale Lands behind, but peace had not followed.
Vaerin noticed it too. "The wind's wrong. Like it's... watching."
Elira closed her eyes. "It's not natural. The Tempest's breath. Someone's sending it."
As if in answer, the sky darkened—not with clouds, but with shadows.
From the north, a formation of riders descended. They flew not on beasts, but on currents—storm-forged wings of black energy extending from harnesses etched with runes of lightning. Their armor shimmered with iridescent stormlight. At their front flew a woman whose helm bore the mark of the Tempest Creed: a broken storm sigil over a spiral of wind.
"Sable Winds," Elira said grimly. "The Oracle has marked us."
Aran stepped forward. "Then she sees us as a threat."
"No," Elira said. "She sees you as a choice. That's more dangerous."
The lead rider halted midair, hovering effortlessly as her voice echoed through a wind-forged conduit:
"Aran Thorne. The Oracle of Storms summons you. Refuse, and be taken. Resist, and be ended."
Aran glanced at his companions.
"I'm done being summoned," he replied—and lifted his hand.
Golden fire burst upward in a shockwave. The wind screamed in reply.
The riders scattered, circling like hawks, preparing to strike.
Vaerin's swords flashed.
Elira whispered to the wind, bending it against its own.
And Aran, the fire still new in his veins, braced for a battle unlike any before—fire against sky, oath against prophecy.
The storm had come for him.
But he would not bow.