Kael Rynhart's world shattered in a deafening blast. His ears rang, body weightless as he plummeted through darkness. One second, he stood on the Rust Sparrow's deck, Jinro's gale shoving him forward, Lyra's shouts cutting through the storm. The next—nothing but a void, swallowing him whole.
A voice sliced through the black, sharp and cold as steel: "You break the balance. You shouldn't exist."
Lightning tore the sky, and Kael jolted awake. Rain stung his face, mixing with blood from a split lip. The Sparrow lurched, its starboard engine coughing blue sparks into the storm. Through the haze, Lyra crawled toward him, one arm dangling uselessly, her Bloom Catalyst tattoos flickering like dying coals.
"Stay down," she snapped, vines sprouting from her good hand to cradle his neck. "That crash should've killed you."
Kael's fingers brushed his chest. The Chaos Embera sigil burned hot, pulsing wildly. "Where's… the crew?"
Before Lyra could answer, a figure emerged from the storm.
The Sentinel's bone-white mask glowed under lightning, his dark robes soaking up the rain. Where his boots touched the deck, the wood smoked and curled, as if kissed by fire.
"Bearer of the Forbidden Flame," he said, his voice a chilling weave of three whispers over silence. "The Guild's patience ends tonight."
Lyra tried to summon more vines, but they shriveled instantly. "He's blocking our Catalysts," she said, voice tight. "I can't feel my Embera."
Kael staggered up, gripping a dagger scavenged from a Guild wreck months ago. His hand shook, but he forced a smirk. "Nice mask. You hit a costume shop on the way?"
The Sentinel tilted his head, and the world went quiet.
No rain. No wind. No pulse.
Kael lunged, aiming for the Sentinel's chest. The figure moved like smoke, dodging between raindrops. A palm slammed into Kael's sternum, and pain exploded as his Chaos sigil twisted—fire, ice, lightning clashing inside him.
"You wield a storm like a child," the Sentinel said, fingers curling like claws. "Let me show you control."
A blade of wind roared through the silence as Jinro dropped into a crouch, his Gale Embera swirling. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, burned sharp and deadly. His hands signed: Stop playing hero.
Kael spat blood, grinning. "Not playing."
From the shadows, Talli's voice mimicked the Sentinel's eerie tone: "The Guild's patience ends tonight." The masked figure froze—just for a moment.
Kael struck, driving his dagger into the Sentinel's thigh. A burst of dark energy erupted, flinging them both across the deck. Kael crashed into the mast, vision blurring as wood splintered. The Sentinel rose, dagger still in his leg, unmoved.
"Enough," he said, the word rattling Kael's bones.
The sky collapsed.
A spiraling storm of wind and lightning smashed down, sending the Sparrow into a freefall. Kael saw Jinro swept overboard, Lyra's vines whipping out to grab him, and Talli vanish under a falling beam. The deck bucked, and Kael reached for the Chaos Embera, letting its wild power surge.
His sigil blazed.
Silver fire met black lightning in a shockwave that cracked the Sentinel's mask. For a heartbeat, Kael saw a face—young, pale, human, afraid. Then the Sparrow slammed into the Maelspire's outer currents, and darkness took him again.
Kael woke to salt and scorched wood. The Sparrow lay wrecked on a jagged floating islet, its hull cracked but intact. Lyra knelt beside him, her arm in a sling of torn sailcloth, her eyes fierce despite the pain.
"Don't move," she said as he tried to sit. "Three broken ribs, idiot. Jinro's fishing, Talli's stealing his catch, and Cragg's keeping them from killing each other."
Kael's hand brushed something cold in the sand—a black obsidian spear, humming faintly. Etched in purple along its shaft were the words: Chaos cannot hide.
"That wasn't just a Sentinel," Kael rasped, wincing. "That was… something worse."
Lyra's face darkened. She touched the spear, her fingers shaking. "He called you 'Bearer,' not 'Wielder.' They know what the Chaos Embera is, Kael."
Night fell, and Kael stood at the islet's edge, clutching his battered compass. Its needle glowed, pointing east—toward the Maelspire Veil, where storms never stopped and no map dared go.
A voice rose from the waves, low and strange: "You shouldn't be alive."
Kael kept his eyes on the horizon. "Heard that before."
Two amber eyes glowed in the dark water, not human, not anything he knew. "The Flame chose you," the voice said. "Why?"
Kael glanced at the compass, its glow steady despite the storm's pull. "I'll figure it out."
Behind him, the crew's voices drifted—Jinro's grumble as Talli swiped another fish, Cragg's deep laugh, Lyra's tired sigh. They were bruised but breathing. The storm loomed, but they were ready.
The compass held steady. East. Always east.