The southern foothills stank of scorched wood and old blood.

Mazen kept low as the Howling Pact made their way along a narrow ridge, the air thick with heat. Ash drifted like snow.

Shadow walked ahead, silent as ever, though even he kept glancing at the horizon — where dull red light shimmered against the sky.

The Fire Serpent's temple lay somewhere beyond that haze.

Calen growled behind them. "I don't like this. Too quiet."

They didn't have long to wait.

A burst of motion from the rocks — shapes emerging, weapons flashing.

Mercenaries.

At least a dozen. Dirty, desperate, bounty-thirsty.

"For the Black Tear!" one of them bellowed.

Mazen's stomach dropped.

No time to think.

A blade swung for his head. He ducked instinctively, the world slowing again around him. His own dagger lashed out without thought, slicing a line across the man's wrist.

Another attacker came from the side.

Mazen turned — but too late.

The axe should've taken his shoulder clean through.

It didn't.

A pulse surged out from his chest.
The air around him thickened, like smoke.
A ring of shadow burst outward, knocking the attacker back like a puppet yanked by invisible strings.

The others froze.

Even Mazen staggered, feeling the last traces of it like ice in his veins.

"What… the hell was that?" he muttered, his voice thick.

Shadow's eyes narrowed from across the skirmish, his masked face unreadable.

"I told you," He said quietly. "This land wakes things in people."

Calen finished off another mercenary and spat in the dirt.
"We move. Now."

Mazen glanced at his hands.

They trembled.

Not from fear.
But from the cold, hungry power still clinging to his bones.

The wind howled as they climbed.

It came sudden and savage — a violent storm ripping through the pass as if the mountain itself was trying to shake them loose.

Shina pulled her hood tighter and kept moving, the others shouting to be heard over the roar.

"We should turn back!" one of the scouts yelled.

"Too late for that," Mirra snapped, squinting through the stinging mist. "We reach the marker or die out here."

The wind hit harder, almost alive. A snap of movement sent loose rocks tumbling dangerously close to the path's edge.

A flash of movement.

A rebel lost his footing.

Shina lunged without thinking, grabbing his arm — but it wasn't strength that saved them.

A surge of air burst upward from beneath her, a sharp gust rising unnaturally, halting their fall and pushing them safely back toward the slope.

For a heartbeat, the storm bent around her.

The others didn't notice.

Shina staggered, wide-eyed, her heart pounding.

She flexed her fingers. The wind swirled faintly, as if waiting.

No… it's just the storm.

But deep down, something sharp and restless had stirred inside her.

And it wasn't done.

South — Mazen's path

They reached a burned-out village near dusk.

Charred walls. Blackened bones. No survivors, no banners. Only the wind and the crackle of old embers.

And a man sitting calmly by a cold fire pit.

His hair was long and white, his eyes pale and distant.

Shadow tensed immediately.

"Leave him," Calen muttered. "Mad hermit."

But the old man spoke before they could pass.

"Storm's rising," he rasped, voice like cracked stone. "The ground will bleed before the moons turn. The beasts below are stirring."

Mazen's pulse quickened.

"What beasts?"

The old man's eyes seemed to see straight through him.

"Fire stirs first. But others will wake. One in the dark heart of the world. The Mind that Shadows all things. When that one rises… the land falls."

The name hovered unspoken.

Shadow Mind.

Mazen felt the cold pulse again in his chest.

Shadow grabbed his shoulder.
"Leave him."

And they did.

But the words clung to Mazen like ash.

East — Shina's path

At a narrow bend in the trail, a woman waited. Old, hunched, with eyes clouded like fog. A tangle of herbs hung from her belt.

Mirra swore under her breath. "Another crone."

But Shina slowed.

The old woman lifted a hand.

"The winds carry names again," she murmured. "Old names. Names of beasts bound beneath stone. Air grows restless, child."

Shina's throat tightened. "Which names?"

The woman smiled a broken, sad smile.
"You'll know them soon enough. When the skies crack, and the world bleeds fire and shadow."

And then she turned and vanished into the mist.

Shina stood frozen a moment longer.

Shadow. Fire. Wind.

Something terrible was rising.

And she was caught in its path.

The sun was sinking when the first new posters went up.

In the battered tavern of Gray Pass Outpost, a one-eyed barkeep nailed fresh parchment to the timber wall beside the old wanted sheets.

Two faces.

Or what passed for them.

THE BLACK TEAR — BOUNTY DOUBLED
THE SHADOWED WOLF — WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE

The numbers beside their names made the room hush for a breath.

A hard-looking mercenary at the bar grinned. "Those two will fetch a king's ransom."

His companion laughed. "If they live long enough. Word is, the Crown wants 'em gone before they can find their way near the old temples. Shadow Mind's name is stirring again."

Mazen, hooded in a dark corner, felt the words like a knife between his ribs.

He gripped his mug tightly.

Shadow Mind.

The name wouldn't leave him.

Every time it was spoken, the air seemed heavier. The land is more restless.

Across the valley, Shina moved through another border camp as similar posters went up.

She didn't need to look.

She already knew her name would be there.

And somewhere, Mark Arkios's as well.

The storm was coming.

And soon, no mask would save them.

The southern hills cracked underfoot.

Mazen's warband made camp near the scorched valley pass. The air shimmered with heat that didn't belong to the sun, and strange flickers of red light danced along the horizon.

Even the night beasts were silent.

Shadow crouched beside the fire, blade in hand.

"It's close," he muttered. "The temple lies just beyond the basin."

Mazen said nothing.

But he could feel it now.

The land's pulse, steady and dark beneath his feet.

And in the distance, a glimmer of something huge moving behind the smoke. A shape. Or a trick of the heat.

His hand brushed the hilt of his dagger — though something inside told him no mortal weapon would matter soon.

Miles to the east, Shina's group reached the mountain crest as a new storm brewed over the Wind Wyrm's temple peak.

The clouds moved wrong — slow, deliberate, circling as though a giant hand stirred them.

Mirra cursed under her breath.

"I've seen a hundred storms," she said, voice tight. "That's no storm."

Shina felt the wind shift against her skin, a cold warning. The air smelled of metal and old stone.

Somewhere deep in the valley below, a rumble rolled through the earth.

The monsters below were waking.

And neither of them knew how close they were to each other — separated by only the breadth of a storm and a few desperate hours.

But fate was almost done playing at a distance.