Stormwake Highlands - Veyra

  Lightning split the sky in ragged veins, arcing over the jagged cliffs of Cindral’s Edge. The rain came sideways, slanting through the howling wind like a curtain of steel needles. Amid this violence stood a figure—a young woman clad in scaled leather armor, her arms bare to the storm.

  Veyra, last of the Stormblood, stood on the cliff’s edge, arms outstretched, eyes closed. The gale did not buffet her—it bowed to her. Her silver hair lifted like smoke, her bare feet rooted on the stone.

  She opened her eyes. They glowed faintly blue, crackling with stored momentum.

  A chorus of battle cries rose behind her. Trainees launched from catapults soared toward her like arrows. Mid-air, she sprang forward, twisting and striking. She didn’t slow. Every movement stole speed from the wind, fed it into her muscles. Fist met blade, foot met steel. She danced in the air as if gravity had lost meaning.

  Below, Master Kael watched. Broad-shouldered, arms folded beneath a heavy stormcloak, his eyes narrowed at her form.

  She landed with a skid that shattered the cliff’s edge, chest heaving. The others were down—groaning, bruised, exhilarated.

  Kael approached. “You broke the sky again.”

  Veyra gave a breathless smirk. “It blinked first.”

  He looked past her, toward the horizon. “And yet… the storm doesn’t satisfy you anymore.”

  Veyra’s gaze drifted. “It’s too loud. I keep… hearing something else. Underneath it all.”

  “A stillness?”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  She nodded. “It scares me.”

  “Good,” said Kael. “It means you’re close.”

  ---

  Rootdeep Abbey - Orran

  Deep beneath the emerald canopy of Eldwood, serenity ruled. The air held the weight of centuries—soft, slow, sacred. Orran sat cross-legged on the moss-covered stone floor, eyes closed, breath steady. Before him, the Rootheart pulsed gently—an ancient root cluster lit from within.

  Each heartbeat matched the glow. It calmed Orran’s thoughts, anchored his spirit. Around him, Rootpath Monks moved in silent routine—sweeping, watering, chanting in tones older than language.

  Orran exhaled, long and low. He had held his stillness for three days now. No motion. No thought of motion. That was the training.

  A rumble echoed through the earth.

  Orran’s eyes snapped open.

  The Rootheart flickered.

  Sister Maela, tall and gnarled like the trees outside, placed a wrapped hand on his shoulder. “It has not trembled since the War of Bending Skies.”

  “I felt it,” Orran said. “Inside. As if the ground beneath me breathed.”

  She nodded. “The Stillpoint stirs. And so must you.”

  “But I am not ready.”

  “That is why you must go.”

  ---

  Marrowheel City - Thistle

  The city of Marrowwheel pulsed with noise and smoke. Towering spires loomed over markets and forges, their heights vanishing into smog. In the lower warrens, where the sun rarely reached, thieves and tinkers ruled.

  Thistle crouched beside a flickering lamp-post, her eyes fixed on the narrow alley. She had slipped through guard patrols, bribed two ward-keepers, and now clutched the treasure: a coin. Round, smooth, impossibly warm.

  The Vault of Mirrored Truths was supposed to be legend. And yet, there it had been—beneath the archives, behind a door of living stone.

  She turned the coin in her fingers. It shimmered not gold, but some color that shifted too fast to name. Her own reflection stared back—and smiled.

  “Don’t like that,” she muttered.

  She slipped into Garrin’s den—a half-collapsed cellar filled with old weapons, junk, and books no one read.

  He looked up from his table. “You’re late.”

  “Time wobbled,” she replied, tossing the coin.

  It floated.

  Garrin stood so fast his chair fell. “Where in the ten hells did you get that?”

  “A vault. Or a memory. Hard to say.”

  He didn’t blink. “You need to get rid of it.”

  “I tried,” she said. “It keeps coming back.”

  ---

  Shai’ra Dunes - Seer Corren

  In the vast, rust-colored dunes of Shai’ra, beneath the gaze of stars that didn’t blink, a man sat before a fire. His robe was frayed linen. His eyes hidden behind a white cloth.

  Seer Corren was speaking.

  “…and when the mountain remembers it was once a river, then shall the silence speak.”

  Beside him, Mira, his young apprentice, scribbled furiously.

  “You’re writing too slow,” he said suddenly.

  She looked up. “You never say the same prophecy twice. You want me to keep up?”

  He smiled faintly. “That one was for me. Not the world.”

  The fire flared into a spiral.

  His smile faded. “The Stillpoint wakes.”

  Mira dropped her quill. “Is that… the end?”

  “No. The hinge.”

  She hesitated. “Of what?”

  He didn’t answer.