In the icy lands of the North, where even sunlight wore frost, the Stormborn Sect readied its spears.
Mount Galehowl split the clouds as war banners of lightning were unfurled. Their leader, a towering warlord named Veyrian, bore the scars of battles long lost—and one against a name he dared not speak aloud.
"He returns," his whisper echoed, as his generals knelt in silence.
The Stormborn Sect had once challenged Zeirion in the era before collapse. Their arrogance had left their heavens scorched. But Veyrian had survived. And he remembered.
"We strike before he rebuilds," he declared.
From the frozen vaults, they summoned the Titan Core—a fragment of primordial fury—and infused it into their skies. Northern winds turned into shrieking warhorns.
But the storm had already been watched.
From afar, Zeirion stood upon the Ghostwatching Cliffs, Aralya beside him. His gaze pierced frost and cloud.
"They gather too soon," he murmured.
"Let them come," Aralya said, voice like starlight. "Let them break upon you like all the others."
Zeirion's cloak stirred, not from wind—but from his power unfurling again.
"Let the North remember."