The wind no longer hunted them—but it watched.
After the clash with the Sable Winds, the skies had grown still, unnaturally so. Aran, Elira, and Vaerin moved through the lowland valleys and jagged plateaus of the Stormmarch, where few dared walk and fewer returned.
Aethra lay ahead—perched beyond the Cloudveil, a floating city held aloft by ancient sky-runes. But the path to it was anything but open.
They traveled by night, cloaked in silence and stars. Even fire had to rest.
Elira walked closest to Aran now, watching him more carefully than ever. His flame had changed during the battle. It shimmered with a new hunger—controlled, yes, but straining at its leash.
"You're not the same," she said as they rested beneath the arching roots of a wind-blasted tree.
"I can feel everything now," Aran admitted. "The fire, the choices, the weight. It's like I was half-asleep before."
"Just don't burn out before we get there," Vaerin said, leaning against a rock and checking his knives. "You're too useful now."
Aran gave a thin smile. "Nice to know you care."
They pressed on, climbing higher into the spines of the world. On the fifth day, the Cloudveil appeared—churning mist laced with sparks of lightning, stretching across the horizon like a living barrier.
Elira stepped forward and touched it. The cloud recoiled, then whispered.
"It knows you," she murmured. "The sky remembers."
Aran approached. As his fingers brushed the mist, a wind-path formed—carved by his fire, parted by his presence.
"It's letting us in," he said.
Vaerin exhaled. "Or leading us to something worse."
Still, they entered.
The moment they passed the veil, sound returned—low and distant at first, like drums echoing through stone.
Then a voice.
"You come not as prey, but as flame-walkers. The Oracle waits. Do you still wish to rise?"
Aran stepped forward.
"Yes. And I won't kneel when I get there."
Above them, the floating towers of Aethra blinked into view, glinting with stormlight and secrets.