The sky had always whispered to her.
Most people only heard wind as wind, the rustling of leaves, the moan across mountain ridges, the gentle hush at night. But for Serenyx, it was never that simple. The sky spoke. Sometimes it was faint, like a sigh, other times bold, like a roar of fire caught in storm clouds. It spoke in murmurs only she could understand, and though she had grown used to pretending otherwise, she knew it was dangerous.
That morning, the whispers were not gentle. They rolled over the hills with an edge, as though thunder itself was trapped beneath the earth, pounding at its cage.
Serenyx stood alone at the ridge above Eloria, grass brushing her legs. Her boots were scuffed with dew, her braid already unraveling in the wild breeze. The village below was still stirring awake: chimney smoke curling into pale sky, distant clatter of pails at the wells, bleary-eyed farmers tugging oxen toward the fields.
To them, it was an ordinary dawn.
To her, it felt like the edge of something vast.
A prickling sensation spread beneath her ribs, an ache she had carried since childhood, but heavier now, humming in rhythm with the whispers above. She pressed her palm against her chest, muttering under her breath:
"Not today… I have bread duty. Don't you dare start today."
The wind, of course, ignored her. It coiled, mischievous and restless, tugging at her braid until strands slapped across her cheeks. Serenyx shoved the hair out of her eyes and narrowed them at the horizon.
"You're laughing at me, aren't you?" she accused the sky, pointing at nothing in particular. "Do you even know how boring bread duty is? Can't you have your little apocalypse tomorrow?"
The breeze whirled again, and she swore it was mocking her.
But her half-smile faltered when the first sign appeared: a streak, sudden and violent, slicing across the heavens. Not lightning—too precise. It tore through the sky like a blade dipped in fire, leaving a jagged scar that bled orange light. Serenyx's breath caught. Birds scattered from the ridge in a panicked burst of wings, and for a moment the entire meadow fell silent.
Then she saw it.
From that crack in the clouds descended a single feather—massive, glowing, aflame yet unburning. It drifted slowly, impossibly, spiraling down like a falling star. Serenyx took a half-step forward, her heart pounding against her ribs.
By the time the feather touched earth, it dissolved into ash.
Her lips parted. The word escaped like a confession:
"…The Phoenix."
The sound of it left her throat trembling.
She should have run straight home, pretended she had seen nothing, shoved the vision into the back of her head like the dozens of other strange things she had buried there. But instead, her feet carried her down the ridge, closer to where the ashes still smoldered faintly in the grass.
When she crouched to touch them, warmth licked her fingertips. Too warm for something that had already burned. The hum in her chest deepened, synchronizing with the faint ember glow, and for a breathless instant she thought it's alive.
"Serenyx!"
The voice snapped her out of the trance. She jerked upright, smearing ash against her tunic. A tall boy was striding up the ridge, auburn hair catching the sun, his expression halfway between relief and fury.
Her cousin. Lytheris.
Of course. The one person in Eloria who could ruin any good moment.
"You promised to stay out of trouble before breakfast," he said the moment he reached her, voice sharp.
"I did!" Serenyx protested, shoving her hands behind her back. "Technically. This isn't trouble. This is… sightseeing."
His gaze dropped to the scorch mark at her feet, then back to her flushed face. His sigh was deep, heavy, weary—the sound of someone who had given up trying to control a hurricane.
"You're going to be the death of us both," Lytheris muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Serenyx grinned, leaning closer. "That's cousin talk for thank you for keeping life interesting."
But Lytheris wasn't smiling. His eyes; usually steady, unshaken, shifted toward the horizon where the streak of fire still lingered. A shadow passed over his features, one she rarely saw.
"Did you feel it too?" Serenyx asked softly.
He didn't answer.
Which meant yes.
By the time they reached the village square, the whispers of the sky had faded, but Serenyx's nerves hadn't. She trailed behind Lytheris as he stormed toward the bakery, muttering under his breath about reckless cousins and early graves.
The market was already in full swing: vendors hawking bread and honey, children darting between carts, old women gossiping on stools. Serenyx tried to blend into the crowd, tugging her hood low. But her restlessness betrayed her. At every turn, her eyes scanned the rooftops, the corners, as though she expected something or someone to leap out.
And then she saw them.
Soldiers.
Not the king's guard, not the local patrol. These men wore armor of black and silver, their insignia a twisted serpent devouring its own tail. Serenyx's stomach dropped.
The Shadow Sect.
They were moving in pairs, questioning villagers, their voices sharp, their presence radiating menace. Children stopped playing. Merchants lowered their voices. Even the lute player faltered mid-strum.
"Lytheris," Serenyx hissed, tugging his sleeve.
"I see them," he said grimly, eyes narrowing.
One of the soldiers lifted a parchment, flashing it at a baker. From where Serenyx stood, she could just make out the sketch on the paper: the faint outline of a girl's face.
Her blood went cold.
It was her.
Lytheris grabbed her hand so hard it hurt. "Don't speak. Don't look back. Just move."
Serenyx swallowed, forcing a smile as they blended into the crowd. "See? This is what I meant when I said bread duty is cursed."
But her attempt at humor rang hollow. Because deep down, she knew the truth.
The whispers of the sky hadn't been warning her.
They had been calling her.