That night, the village tavern roared with talk of the storm. Farmers spoke of ruined fences, traders cursed the muddy roads, and children boasted of how they had watched the lightning from their windows.
Aric sat quietly near the fire, the humming still in his ears.
"You've that look again," said Mira, the miller's daughter, sliding onto the bench beside him. Her dark hair was tied in a braid, her sleeves rolled, her face glowing with the heat of the hearth. "The look that says you'd rather be anywhere but here."
Aric managed a smile. "Did you not feel it? When the lightning struck the Fang?"
"Felt the whole ground shake," Mira said with a shrug. "That stone's cursed. My grandmother says it was placed there by the first kings to bind something beneath."
Aric's skin prickled. "Bind what?"
Before Mira could answer, the tavern door slammed open. An old traveler entered, wrapped in a tattered cloak. His eyes found Aric instantly, and for a heartbeat, the noise of the tavern dimmed.
The stranger's voice was like dry leaves scraping stone."The storm chose him."