The journey to the Storm Peaks began in silence.
The mist from the forest clung to their clothes long after they left the clearing, as if reluctant to let them go. Days passed beneath shifting skies—through fields scorched by old wars, valleys haunted by ruins of the Guild's forgotten cities. Everywhere they went, Ethan could feel it now: the heartbeat of the world beneath his feet, slow and weary.
Ashen led them north, following paths that existed only in memory. Lyra kept close, her golden eyes scanning every horizon. Shadowfang soared above, a dark flame cutting through clouds heavy with the promise of rain.
They stopped only when the air began to taste of thunder.
The Storm Peaks rose like spears of stone thrust into the heavens, their jagged crowns hidden by endless tempests. Lightning crawled across the sky in veins of blue and silver, illuminating waterfalls that fell upward instead of down. The wind howled like something alive, screaming in forgotten tongues.
Even the air hummed with energy—raw, primal, uncontrollable.
Lyra shielded her face from the wind. "You call this a mountain? This is a nightmare."
Ashen's cloak flared in the gale. "It's a wound," they said. "This is where the Guild bound the god of storms. The Oath still bleeds through the sky."
Ethan felt his heart beat in rhythm with the thunder. Every pulse made his skin prickle, his veins glow faintly gold. "Then this is where we wake it."
Ashen glanced at him. "If it wakes, and the world isn't ready to bear its name—it won't just destroy the Peaks. It will burn the skies clean."
Ethan looked up at the raging clouds, unflinching. "Then we'll teach the sky to breathe again."
---
They climbed for three days.
The storm never ceased. Rain lashed them in sheets of ice, wind tore at their cloaks, lightning struck close enough to leave afterimages in their eyes. The higher they went, the heavier the air became—charged with something that made the soul quiver.
At night, they took shelter beneath overhangs of crystalized stone that glowed faintly from within. Ethan barely slept. Each time his eyes closed, he saw flashes—memories that weren't his. The god's dreams. Tempests tearing through oceans. Voices chanting in a tongue of thunder. Chains of lightning being forced through living flesh.
On the third night, he woke gasping, lightning crawling beneath his skin.
Lyra sat beside him, staring at the storm. "You saw it again, didn't you?"
He nodded, rubbing his temples. "It's getting stronger. Every step closer feels like I'm walking into its heartbeat."
She turned toward him, her expression unreadable. "And when you reach it? What happens then, Ethan? Do you think it'll welcome you?"
He didn't answer. Because deep down, he already knew.
Gods did not welcome. They tested.
---
By the fourth dawn, they reached the summit.
The peak was a vast plateau of obsidian stone, split down the middle by a chasm that glowed from within. Arcs of lightning leapt from one side to the other, singing the air with static. At the center stood a colossal spear—its shaft driven deep into the earth, its blade piercing the clouds above.
Every strike of lightning hit that weapon first, grounding storms into silence for a single heartbeat before the sky screamed again.
"The Spear of Zehar," Ashen said quietly. "The Guild called it the Storm's Fang. But the truth is simpler."
They gestured toward the weapon. "It's the god's heart."
Ethan's breath caught. "It's alive."
Ashen nodded. "Barely. The Oath forced its consciousness into stillness. If you wish to wake it, you must offer resonance strong enough to break that silence."
Lyra's voice trembled despite herself. "And if he fails?"
"Then the storm consumes him."
Ethan stepped forward, untying his cloak. Wind ripped at his clothes, rain needling his skin. He could feel the rhythm now—deeper than sound, heavier than thought. The storm wasn't chaos. It was music, and it was waiting for someone to conduct it again.
He drew his sword. The runes along its edge flared gold.
Shadowfang landed behind him, wings unfurling in a blaze of shadowed fire. Their bond thrummed through the air—raw, steady, unbreakable.
Ethan's voice was barely audible over the thunder. "Let's wake him."
---
He thrust the blade into the obsidian ground.
The mountain answered.
Lightning split the sky, striking the spear, the sword, and Ethan all at once. The world turned white. For a moment, he felt his consciousness scatter—his soul shredded into a thousand echoes. But through the chaos, a deeper voice stirred.
> Who dares sing my silence?
Ethan's knees buckled. Blood streamed from his nose, his eyes. But he stood. "I'm not here to silence you. I'm here to free you."
> Freedom is a storm without purpose.
"Then I'll give it one!" he shouted, his voice swallowed by the wind.
Shadowfang roared, his body fracturing into living flame. The dragon's essence merged with Ethan's, threads of shadow and gold weaving together. The world bent.
The lightning that struck him no longer burned—it obeyed.
Arcs of electricity danced around his body, weaving through his veins like serpents of light. His sword became an extension of the storm itself, every motion carving rhythm into reality.
Ashen watched from afar, their eyes unreadable. "He's synchronizing," they murmured. "With a god."
Lyra could only stare. The air around Ethan warped, thunder bending to his heartbeat. He was no longer a man standing against the storm—he was the storm, bound by will alone.
Then came the final note.
The spear shuddered. Cracks of light spread across its length. The chasm erupted, lightning spilling upward like a geyser of stars.
And from within it, a figure emerged.
It was vast—humanoid in form, but its body was made of living tempest, its eyes twin stars of sapphire. Each breath it took birthed thunder. When it spoke, the world shook.
> WHO CALLS THE FIRST WIND?
Ethan raised his sword, voice steady despite the chaos. "Ethan Veyra, Hunter of the Unbound."
The god studied him for a moment that stretched into eternity. Then it laughed—a sound like breaking mountains.
> Hunter. You wear my chains like a crown.
The storm shifted. Lightning coiled into serpentine tendrils, wrapping around Ethan but not striking. They pulsed with rhythm—measuring, testing.
Ethan met the god's gaze. "Then take them back if you can."
A single bolt struck the ground at his feet, carving molten glass.
> Very well, child of ash. Let us see if your song can carry the weight of the sky.
---
The duel was not fought in flesh, but in sound.
Each strike of Ethan's blade tore new thunder into existence. Each roar of the god answered with a symphony of storms. The mountain became an orchestra of destruction—lightning crashing like drums, wind screaming like violins stretched too far.
But Ethan no longer resisted the rhythm. He moved with it, each motion syncing to the pulse of the Peaks. When the god struck, he let the current pass through him, redirecting it. When it screamed, he harmonized, his own voice cutting through the chaos.
"You're not my cage!" Ethan shouted, his aura flaring gold.
> Then prove it!
The storm god's final blow descended like the end of days—an ocean of lightning crashing toward him. Ethan raised his sword, not to block, but to conduct.
He caught the rhythm—one heartbeat, one breath—and turned it.
The lightning curved.
It spiraled upward, striking the spear's blade, then the sky.
The storm shattered.
Silence fell.
When the light faded, Ethan was kneeling in the center of a crater, his sword half-melted, steam rising from his skin. The spear still stood—but now, faint blue veins of light pulsed along its length, like a heartbeat.
Ashen approached slowly. "You didn't destroy it."
Ethan smiled weakly. "No. I reminded it how to breathe."
The clouds above parted for the first time in centuries. Sunlight poured over the mountain.
The god's voice was softer now, carried by the wind.
> Hunter of the Unbound… you have returned me to the sky. When the other five awaken, call my name, and the storm shall answer.
Then it was gone—its form dissolving into the wind.
Ethan looked up at the now-clear heavens, exhaustion weighing down his limbs. "One down," he murmured.
Lyra's hand found his shoulder. "And five more to wake."
He nodded. "Then let's keep the rhythm."
The storm was quiet now—but deep within that silence, Ethan could still hear the faint echo of thunder, waiting to be sung again.
---