The winds cried.
Not in anger—but in memory.
They had crossed the rippled curtain of dusklight that hung over the shattered horizon, where time leaked sideways and gravity thrummed with doubt. And now, looming ahead of them, was the Cradle of Storms.
It was not a mountain.
It was a wound in the earth. A great basin worn by forces that had never been governed by the Loom—where clouds swirled like halter chains on a drowned core, and lightning stomped the land like restless spirits.
Kael stood at its edge, his cloak lashing behind him, his voidmark burning beneath his skin like a flaming brand.
Elira stood at his side, quiet. The silver strands interwoven through her braid glimmered softly, responding to some unseen presence in the whirling air below.
> "There's something here that doesn't belong to the present," she murmured. "It's too old. Too cacophonous."
