Far from the Pale Lands, atop the sky-wrought Spire of Aethra, lightning carved its name across the heavens.
The tower rose beyond the clouds, anchored by runes older than kingdoms. Winds howled around it—wild, elemental, obeying only the one who dwelled within: the Oracle of Storms.
She stood at the highest chamber, her robes woven from threads of stormlight and shadow. Her eyes—one sapphire, one gold—reflected the vision she had just seen: fire awakening in the Mirror's heart, and a name whispered through fate's loom.
"Aran Thorne," she murmured. "The firewalker has stepped into his thread."
Behind her, acolytes gathered—hooded figures bound to the Tempest Creed. One stepped forward and bowed. "The fire has burned through its judgment. Shall we strike now?"
She turned slowly, her voice calm and terrible. "No. Fire has made its choice… now storm must make its own."
She waved her hand across the Stormmirror—a basin of silver glass. It shimmered with visions of rising tides, ships aflame, cities swallowed by lightning. And at the center: Aran, standing atop a mountain, the skies breaking around him.
"He is not the threat," she said. "He is the fulcrum. But if he leans toward ruin…"
She extended her hand to the sky.
Thunder answered.
"…we will break him before fate does."
Lightning struck the tower's peak, illuminating her face—young, ancient, and marked by prophecy.
"Send the Sable Winds," she commanded. "Let him feel the breath of the storm."
Far below, riders clad in storm-wrought armor began to gather.
And across the world, thunder rumbled.