Before dawn, the wind forgot which way to blow.
It rose from the western sea and turned east, then north, then everywhere at once, carrying with it the scent of iron and rain. The tide hesitated halfway through its breath. Waves hung suspended, frozen mid-crest, then fell backward into the sea.
Mountains groaned in their sleep.
Old stones shifted, remembering shapes they had worn before they were mountains.
In the deserts, glass dunes rippled like the surface of water.
In the forests, every leaf turned toward the same invisible point in the sky.
Something ancient was crossing the Veil.
The night sky split — not with light, but with memory.
Constellations quivered, unthreaded, and rewove themselves into unfamiliar forms: a burning gate, a river of eyes, a single hand cradling flame.
She was coming.
Across Eirath, the echoes began.
In the city of Mirane, temple bells rang by themselves. Their sound had no source; the metal never moved.
In the frozen north, a glacier split from crown to base, revealing runes that burned with living fire.
In the southern plains, shepherds saw their shadows rise before them and walk away into the mist.
Everywhere, sleepers dreamed the same dream — a woman of light walking between suns, whispering their true names.
The gods felt it too. Their temples shook. Icons wept gold. Prayers turned to ash before reaching heaven.
And through it all, one thought passed from mountain to sea, from root to star:
The First Flame has returned.
High in the mountains, the path to the forgotten forge cracked open.
Rivers reversed.
The air thickened with the taste of thunder.
And somewhere deep beneath the stone, where Kael would soon walk, the old forge breathed again for the first time in an age.
Its voice was low, half a sigh, half a promise.
Welcome home.