The path to the Storm Citadel stretched endlessly, winding through skies that shimmered with molten light and clouds that crackled faintly with static. The relic in Cled's chest pulsed faster with every step, its heartbeat echoing through his ribs like a drum of warning and promise.
Lightning danced across the horizon, carving jagged patterns into the floating islands below. Each strike illuminated fragments of ruined towers, shattered statues, and glimmering rivers of energy that flowed in defiance of gravity. The air smelled of ozone and ancient memory, thick with the weight of millennia.
Cled's hand brushed the hilt of the Sky-Sundered Blade at his side, still warm from Serath's final blessing. Even as its light shimmered faintly, he felt the storm's presence like a living entity — hungry, restless, aware.
> "The storm remembers," the relic whispered, its voice vibrating in tandem with the thunder. "It remembers what mortals cannot. It will test not your strength, but your resolve."
He took a steadying breath. Around him, the winds rose and fell like ocean waves, and the first drops of the storm — not water, but shards of crystallized energy — began to fall. They shattered against the bridge beneath his feet with soft, ringing tones, each sound a question, a warning, a reminder of what awaited.
Cled stepped forward, letting the Sky-Sundered Blade trail lightly along the air. Sparks of its own energy collided with the storm's pulse, hissing like angry serpents. Every instinct screamed caution, yet every fiber of his being urged him onward.
The citadel loomed closer now. Its obsidian walls glowed faintly from within, fractured veins of gold and crimson tracing impossible runes. Chains of molten light spiraled upward, holding the fortress aloft, yet swaying with the storm as if in protest. Shadows shifted behind the walls, fleeting glimpses of figures who seemed to move just beyond reality.
> "This is no ordinary enemy," the relic murmured. "It will not fight with steel. It will fight with fear, regret, and memory. Do not yield."
A thunderclap shook the bridge, and Cled's reflection flickered in the shards of lightning around him. For a moment, he saw not himself, but countless versions — every path he might take, every choice he might make, every failure he might suffer. The storm was more than an obstacle; it was a mirror of his soul.
Then the voice came. Deep, resonant, and older than the First Sky Realm itself.
> "Another mortal dares enter my domain?"
The air shivered, and a figure descended from the center of the storm. Wings of pure storm energy unfurled behind him, lightning crackling along every feathered shaft. His face was hidden beneath a mask of stormclouds, yet his presence radiated power so immense it felt as though the sky itself might fracture beneath his gaze.
Cled did not flinch. He raised the Sky-Sundered Blade, letting its calm energy meet the storm's fury without resistance.
> "I am Cled," he said softly, voice carrying across the tumult. "I seek the Heart of the Storm. I will not fight to destroy. I fight to understand."
The figure laughed — a sound like rolling thunder over mountains long dead.
> "Understand? Mortals understand nothing. You bear Heaven's Heart, and yet you think to command me? I am the storm incarnate. I am memory, pain, and wrath. To understand me, you must first become me."
Lightning coiled around his hands, forming jagged spears that shot toward Cled. Each bolt carried a fragment of thought, a fragment of memory: screams of battles long past, the cries of fallen guardians, whispers of betrayal from the council of the sky.
Cled stepped forward into the first strike, letting the blade meet lightning not with resistance but with resonance. Sparks cascaded like frozen fire, yet no harm came to him. He felt the memories wash over him — the grief, the loss, the endless regret — and he did not flinch.
> "Every storm has a heartbeat," the relic whispered. "Find it, and you will find the path to the fragment."
Cled closed his eyes for a moment, letting the storm's rhythm flow through him. It was erratic, violent, but within it he felt a pattern — a pulse beneath the chaos. He opened his eyes, glowing faint silver, and spread his arms.
> "I will listen," he whispered. "Not with my hands. Not with my sword. But with my heart."
The storm recoiled slightly, almost confused by his audacity. The storm-lord tilted his head, wings quivering, as if he had not expected a mortal to meet rage with calm. Lightning continued to strike, but now it bent around Cled, weaving into threads of energy that wrapped around him like ribbons.
Time stretched. Moments became eternities. Memories of the fallen legion appeared once more — the warriors, comrades, and friends Serath had mentioned — bound in chains of regret. Cled understood their story as though it were his own. Every fragment of pain, every shard of sorrow, became part of the current he now commanded with empathy, not force.
> "You wield power," the storm-lord said, voice softer now, tinged with curiosity. "But you wield it differently. Why?"
> "Because power without understanding is noise," Cled replied. "I do not destroy what suffers. I release it."
For the first time, the storm faltered. Lightning froze midair, wings of energy shuddered, and the storm-lord's mask of cloud seemed to ripple in uncertainty. Cled stepped closer, letting the Sky-Sundered Blade absorb and harmonize with the storm's chaotic energy.
Then — a crack louder than all thunder — split the storm. A rift appeared in the center of the citadel, glowing with impossible light.
> "The fragment…" the relic whispered. "It waits beyond the storm's heart. But beware, Cled — nothing that emerges from this rift is as it seems."
The storm-lord roared, a sound that shook the floating islands. He surged forward, wings outstretched, but Cled's calm did not waver. He ran along the bridge, stepping between lightning bolts, letting them guide his path rather than harm him.
The rift pulsed ahead, a living wound in the sky. Shadows moved within it, forming shapes that were almost familiar… almost human… but twisted, fractured by the storm's memory. Cled felt their gazes pierce his very soul.
He raised the Sky-Sundered Blade, its edge catching the rift's light. The relic throbbed inside him, warning him, urging him onward.
> "Step carefully, Cled," it said. "Once you enter, there is no turning back. The storm tests the heart, not the hands."
Lightning struck around him, the bridge beneath cracking, and yet Cled moved forward, calm, unshakable. The storm-lord's shadow stretched behind him like a living darkness, following, probing, waiting.
Then he reached the edge. The rift pulsed violently, and Cled could feel the presence of the second fragment — not yet tangible, yet calling to him with a voice older than the First Sky Realm itself.
He placed his hand against the rift. Light surged, wind screamed, and the fragments of memory rose like phantoms.
And in that instant — the storm-lord spoke a single, chilling word:
> "Welcome… to your reckoning."
The rift flared, and Cled felt himself being pulled into the fragment — into the heart of the storm itself.
Everything went white.
And then — silence, deeper than death, waiting to speak.