Scene 1 – The Storm's Crucible
The world reformed in silence.
Gone was the blood-stained hunting ground. Gone were the scattered corpses of predators. Jemil and his wives now stood on a plain of fractured glass, each shard beneath their feet reflecting different versions of themselves—some triumphant, others broken, others unrecognizable. The air was heavy with static, each breath laced with the taste of storm.
Above them, the storm crowned itself with blades. Countless swords of lightning hung in the clouds, points angled downward, humming as though waiting for a single command to fall.
The swordmaster froze. For the first time since the trial began, her composure cracked. Her eyes fixed on the figure forming at the center of the storm, a phantom taller than any mortal, wrapped in shadow and lightning. Its face was hidden, but in its hand gleamed a blade that mirrored her own—not steel, but forged from broken vows, jagged and black.
