The sky had cracked once before.
Long ago, in the Age of Sundering, when the first flame-wielders and the sky-born mages tore the heavens asunder in a war no side truly won. Since then, the Skyborne Clans, those who once rode the storms and shaped the winds had vanished beyond the northern cloudbreaks.
Now, as kingdoms bristled and demons stirred, Seraphira knew she must call upon them.
Because no ruler could unite the world without the sky's blessing.
And because Kaelreth feared them.
The path to the sky was not paved with stone.
It was carved in wind.
High above the Hollow and beyond the frozen fjords lay the cliffs of Vhal'Aerys, where the air thinned and the stars felt close enough to touch.
Few had ever climbed there and returned.
Seraphira climbed anyway.
Alone.
She climbed for days, hands torn, cloak frozen to her shoulders, the fire in her blood flickering against the wind's hunger.
At the peak, she reached the Storm Altar, a jagged circle of stone surrounded by broken towers that whispered to clouds.
The wind was waiting.
And it recognized her.
It did not howl.
It bowed.
The Skyborne came on wings not of feathers but of forged aetherium and lightning.
Their leader was Yvriel, Sky-Speaker of the last Storm Pact.
Tall. Androgynous. Skin like pale quartz veined with starlight. Eyes storm-gray, always watching the horizon for the next betrayal.
You seek the old alliance? they asked, hovering inches above the altar stone.
I seek a new one, Seraphira answered.
Yvriel studied her.
You have his fire in you.
I do, she said.
You are cursed.
I was.
You will burn.
Only what must be burned.
The wind coiled between them, a listening serpent.
Then Yvriel descended and stepped into the circle.
"Speak your pact, Flameborn."
Seraphira held out her wrist. The spiral mark glowed.
I ask not for your swords.
I ask for your skies.
"When the gates of the Underworld fall, when the kingdoms close their eyes in fear, when the world forgets who it once was, I ask that the Skyborne remember."
"And stand with flame."
Yvriel unsheathed a blade of stormglass.
They drew it across their palm, letting skyfire bleed into the circle.
"Then let it be written," they said, "not in ink, nor in stone but in air."
The wind howled once sharp, high, and binding.
The clouds broke.
And the pact was made.
As Seraphira descended the mountain, the first lightning in weeks split the sky behind her.
Elena met her at the foot of the trail, breathless.
Did they answer?
Seraphira only smiled.
They remembered.
🌑 In the Underworld…
Kaelreth stood at the summit of the Spire of Chains, watching the lightning flare in the distance.
Malkor appeared beside him, uneasy.
They've returned.
Kaelreth's jaw tightened.
Then the sky itself has chosen.
And the storm will not be hers alone.