The storm met them halfway through the desert.
It came without warning, a wall of wind and light that swallowed the horizon whole, turning day into molten dusk. Sand became smoke, the air thick with static and the taste of iron. Every sound vanished under the roar of the gale.
Ashwing pressed close to Lindarion's shoulder, scales rippling against the storm's pressure. "I told you this was a bad idea!" he shouted, his voice nearly lost to the wind.
"You tell me that every time," Lindarion replied evenly, his eyes narrowing against the glare. He extended one hand, fingers splayed. The air shimmered, and a faint golden veil expanded around them, a barrier thin as breath but unyielding. The storm broke against it in waves of light and dust.
Nysha dropped her hood, her dark hair whipping around her face as she steadied her footing. "These aren't natural winds. They're laced with mana, heavy. It's like the desert itself is fighting us."
