The firelight painted everything gold and wild. Drums beat like the pulse of the earth, and the air smelled of smoke, sweat, and roasted meat. The Beastmen celebrated like only predators could — loud, unashamed, and a little terrifying.
I sat cross-legged near the biggest fire, trying to ignore the fact that someone had used the fangback's tusk as a makeshift drink ladle. Brynjar sat beside me, already on his third horn of mead, laughing at a joke I didn't understand.
"You're still alive," he said between gulps. "Didn't think you would be."
"Neither did I," I said. "Guess that makes two of us surprised."
He barked a laugh. "You got spirit, Vale. Not much sense, but spirit."
"Story of my life." I raised my drink — smoky, bitter, probably flammable. "So… now what? I've survived the world's angriest bacon. Does that earn me a nap, or are we doing round two?"
Brynjar leaned back, firelight flickering in his eyes. "You'll rest. Then you'll learn. The elders saw what you did — the spark you called. That wasn't luck."
"I wasn't trying to do anything," I said. "It just… happened."
"That's how stormfire starts," he said. "Wild. Unshaped. Like thunder looking for a voice."
I frowned. "You keep saying that. Stormfire. What is it, exactly?"
He shrugged. "Old power. Comes from the sky. Some say the gods spilled it when they broke the world. Others say it's what's left of their breath. Either way, it burns bright and kills faster than it heals."
"So, radioactive magic. Got it."
He blinked. "You say strange things."
"Better than screaming, right?"
He grinned. "Sometimes."
The music shifted — slower now, more like a heartbeat than a rhythm. Beastmen gathered in pairs and circles, their chants deepening into something older. The kind of sound that made you feel small in the best way possible.
Brynjar's expression softened. "That song's for the fallen," he said quietly. "The beast you killed. It lived long, hunted hard. We honor it."
"Even after it tried to turn me into a chew toy?"
"It was what it was. So are you."
The simplicity of it hit me harder than I expected. These people — savage, scarred, unpolished — had more dignity in death than most humans had in life.
When the song ended, Brynjar stood and stretched. "Come. The Elder wants words."
I followed him through the crowd to the central fire, where Elder Tor sat like a statue carved from stone and age. His white mane glowed in the firelight, his one good eye reflecting the flames.
"Vale," he said, voice like gravel dragged through dust. "The stormfire moves in you. That is not a gift to waste."
"I didn't ask for it," I said.
"No one ever does," he replied. "But it chose you. That means something."
I hesitated. "You keep saying 'it chose me.' You mean… this happens to people?"
"Rarely. Fewer each age. The gods' whispers fade, but the fire remembers. It finds new mouths to speak through."
I sighed. "So I'm a magical mouthpiece for divine static. Perfect."
Tor's grin was almost kind. "Sarcasm. Good. It means you still think you have a choice."
"Do I?"
He leaned forward, the fire outlining every scar on his face. "Only if you're strong enough to make one."
Before I could answer, a low horn echoed across the plains — long, mournful, distant. Every Beastman froze. The music stopped. The laughter died.
Brynjar's hand went to his blade. "Scouts?"
A runner burst from the dark, fur matted with blood and dust. "Raiders," he panted. "Smoke on the eastern ridge. Dwarves."
Tor stood, slow and steady. "How many?"
"Two warbands. Maybe more."
Brynjar's jaw tightened. "They're early. The trade pacts were supposed to hold another season."
"Pacts are words," Tor said. "Steel speaks louder."
Then his gaze fell on me. "Human. You wanted to understand this world. Tonight, you will."
I swallowed hard. "I was kind of hoping for a lecture, not a battle."
Brynjar drew his sword — a broad, jagged thing that looked half-forged, half-grown. "Welcome to Aetheria, Vale. Lesson one: everyone bleeds."
The drums began again — faster, furious. The pack armed themselves, their howls rising into the night like a storm breaking over the plains.
And me? I just stood there, gripping the bone charm the child had given me, feeling the faint hum of stormfire stir beneath my skin again.
Whatever waited out there beyond the ridge, I had a terrible feeling I was about to meet it.
The night cracked open with fire.
From the edge of the camp, I could see the glow crawling over the horizon — not the soft amber of torches, but the jagged, hungry orange of war. Smoke smeared the stars. The wind carried the metallic tang of forge-fire and something sharper — ozone.
The Beastmen moved fast. They didn't panic; they shifted. One heartbeat, laughter and drums. The next, blades, bows, and armor scavenged from a dozen fallen empires. Even the children were silent, led into caves that pulsed faintly with wardlight.
Brynjar tossed me a short blade and a leather strap of throwing knives. "You stay close, human. If you run, you die. If you freeze, you die. If you talk too much—"
"I die," I finished. "Got it."
He smirked. "You learn quick."
"Fear's a good teacher."
We climbed the ridge with a small warband — six Beastmen, silent as ghosts. From the top, I finally saw the enemy: a line of armored shapes marching through the valley below, their banners etched with runes that shimmered like molten gold. Dwarves — not the bearded blacksmiths of storybooks, but stocky, hard-eyed creatures with bronze skin and war engines strapped to their backs.
"By all means," I whispered, "let's go say hi."
Brynjar shot me a glare that said shut up or get eaten.
The dwarves moved in columns, smoke-belching constructs rolling beside them. Each one was a blend of gears and rune-plates, glowing faintly blue. When one of them fired, the ground shook, leaving behind a crater and the smell of lightning.
Stormtech. The word hit me like déjà vu. I'd seen something like it back on Earth — concept art, research notes, fragments of designs that never worked.
Except now they did.
Brynjar crouched low beside me. "They shouldn't have these yet. Not without—"
"Humans," I said before I could stop myself.
He glanced at me. "What?"
"Nothing." I tightened my grip on the blade. "Just… something about this feels familiar."
Tor's voice carried softly through the linkstones some of the Beastmen wore around their necks. "Do not engage. Observe. The forgeborn move with purpose."
The dwarves reached the outer edge of the plains, spreading into formation. And then — impossibly — they began to chant. Not in any tongue I knew, but in something that vibrated through the air, through my bones.
The ground beneath us shimmered — symbols burned into the soil.
"Move!" Brynjar shouted.
The ridge exploded.
I was thrown backward, tumbling down the slope in a storm of dirt and stone. The air burned my lungs, ears ringing. When I finally stopped, the world tilted sideways. Flames danced across the grass, and shadows moved through the smoke.
Brynjar roared somewhere above me, trading blows with a dwarf twice his width. I pushed myself up, clutching the short blade. Stormfire buzzed in my veins again — alive, restless.
Something inside me whispered. Not a voice, not words — just pressure.
Let go.
I did.
The air around me bent, the world snapping into colors that didn't exist on Earth. Every spark, every ember became sharp, electric. I thrust my hand forward — not because I knew how, but because I had to.
Lightning tore from my palm.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't pretty. It was raw, chaotic, alive. The bolt slammed into a charging dwarf, sending his armor shattering like glass. The stormfire coursed through me, hot enough to taste metal in my mouth.
When it faded, I was shaking. Smoke and static clung to my skin.
Brynjar landed beside me, panting, blood spattered across his fur. He looked at the fallen dwarf, then at me.
"Stormfire," he muttered. "By the old gods…"
"Yeah," I said, coughing. "I noticed."
He laughed — actually laughed, sharp and wild. "You really are cursed, Vale."
"Funny," I said, staggering to my feet. "That's what my boss used to say."
The fight raged until dawn. By the time the suns rose, the Beastmen had driven the dwarves back — not defeated, but delayed. The plains were blackened, scarred with smoking trenches and twisted metal.
I stood among the wreckage, numb.
Brynjar wiped his blade clean and looked toward the horizon. "They'll come again," he said. "Stronger next time."
"Why?" I asked. "What could they want out here?"
He stared at the ruins of one of the dwarven engines — its core still humming faintly, carved with the same sigils I'd seen in the stormfire's glow.
"They want what all forgers want," he said. "Power that wasn't meant to be theirs."
I looked down at my hands — still trembling, still faintly sparking.
"Yeah," I whispered. "I know the feeling."
And somewhere far off — beyond the plains, beyond the smoke — something watched.
A presence. Not divine. Not benevolent. Just curious.
And for the first time since arriving in Aetheria, I had the distinct, uneasy feeling that I wasn't the only one who'd been sent here.
The plains stank of blood and burned metal.
Smoke curled from blackened soil, where the grass had been replaced by glass. The sun hung low and cruel, two discs of molten gold glaring down on the aftermath. Beastmen moved among the fallen, silent, their celebration replaced by something heavier — respect, regret, exhaustion.
I sat on a shattered piece of dwarven machinery, staring at the crackling rune core inside. It hummed faintly, a caged heartbeat. Blue-white light pulsed through the metal like veins.
If I listened close enough, it almost sounded like a whisper.
Remember.
"Don't touch that," Brynjar said behind me. His voice was hoarse — the kind that had shouted orders and roared through battle until it broke.
"Wasn't planning to," I said, though my fingers were inches away. "Just admiring the craftsmanship. Very 'industrial apocalypse chic.'"
He frowned. "You say strange things again."
"It's part of my charm."
Brynjar crouched beside me, his claws tapping the metal casing. "These weren't made by dwarves alone. The runes are wrong. Too smooth. Too clean."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning someone else taught them."
I exhaled slowly. The hum from the rune core seemed to sync with my pulse. "And you think that 'someone' might be human."
He didn't answer — didn't have to.
The thought made my stomach twist. If another human really was here, and they'd helped build this, then someone had been playing god a lot longer than I'd been alive.
Elder Tor approached then, his staff clicking against the scorched earth. The firelight of dawn caught his mane, turning it to silver flame.
"The warbands retreat east," he said. "They leave their dead — and their secrets."
Brynjar stood. "They'll be back."
"Yes," Tor said softly. "But not for us. For him."
His eye — sharp, burning — turned to me.
"Me?" I said. "I'm new here, remember? No one's got a vendetta against me yet."
"The dwarves came for the stormfire," Tor said. "They felt it burn in the wind. You woke it, and they came to claim it."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "That's… deeply unsettling."
He smiled faintly. "Aetheria is not kind to those who matter."
"Great. I'll add that to my list of comforting quotes."
Tor tapped his staff once. The rune core's light flickered, dimmed, then went out. "The gods stir in their silence," he murmured. "Their chosen walk unseen. Perhaps you are one of them."
"Let's not jump to divine conclusions," I said. "I'm still figuring out how not to set myself on fire."
He chuckled, dry as dust. "Humility. Rare among those who carry power."
Before I could come up with something witty, a horn sounded from the northern ridge — not alarm this time, but signal.
"Scouts return," Brynjar said, squinting into the light.
Two riders approached, their mounts kicking up waves of dust. One was the child's mother — the black-furred warrior from the council, her armor scorched but her eyes sharp. The other, smaller, moved with a strange grace.
An Elyndari.
I felt it before I saw it — the weight of presence, the air bending around them like water over a blade. They wore a cloak of pale grey, hood drawn, steps silent as snowfall. When they dismounted, I caught a glimpse of silver eyes and hair like starlight tangled in shadow.
Tor inclined his head slightly. "You honor us, Seraphyne."
"I come at your call, Elder," the Elyndari said, voice smooth but distant. "The winds spoke of thunder walking the plains."
Their gaze landed on me. Cool. Measured. Ancient.
"So," they said. "This is the stormborn."
"Storm-confused," I muttered. "Titles are still pending."
A hint of a smile touched their lips. "He has humor. Good. He will need it."
Brynjar folded his arms. "You know of this power?"
Seraphyne's eyes shimmered faintly. "I have seen it before — long ago, when the gods still played at shaping mortals. It burns bright and consumes all it touches. It makes heroes. And ghosts."
"Comforting," I said again, because sarcasm was the only armor I had left.
Seraphyne stepped closer, studying me like one might study a dangerous artifact. "You do not belong here, do you?"
"No," I said. "Not even a little."
"Then perhaps it is not you the storm chose," they murmured. "But what you carry."
I frowned. "And that would be…?"
They didn't answer. Instead, they turned to Tor. "He cannot stay here. The dwarves will scent the fire again. He must move — north, to the Luminous Marches. The hidden pantheon stirs there."
Tor nodded. "So be it. Brynjar will guide him."
Brynjar groaned. "I always get the impossible jobs."
"You fight well for a complainer," Tor said.
I looked between them. "Wait, we're just deciding this? Like I'm a parcel?"
Seraphyne's silver eyes met mine again — and for a moment, I saw something beneath the calm. Pity, maybe. Or fear.
"You are no parcel, Vale," they said quietly. "You are a spark in a dry forest. And the wind is rising."
I didn't have a clever response this time.
The Elyndari turned away, cloak catching the light like liquid glass. "Leave by dusk. The gods have begun to remember themselves."
When they were gone, I finally exhaled.
Brynjar stretched, cracking his neck. "Looks like we're traveling together, human."
"Fantastic," I said. "Does the Luminous Marches at least have good weather?"
He grinned. "No."
"Figures."
I looked out across the scorched plains — the fading smoke, the broken machines, the bodies already being carried back to the earth. The twin suns hung over it all, cold and bright, indifferent.
Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, a pantheon was waking up.
And I, somehow, was on their guest list.