The wind-spirits hit like knives.

One darted toward Mirra — a lashing shape of mist and slicing wind. Shina didn't think.

She raised her hand — no blade, no words.

And the air moved.

A sharp burst of wind snapped out from her palm, slamming the spirit against the stone wall with a screech. The mist scattered, vanishing like breath in frost.

Silence fell for a heartbeat.

Darin gaped.
"Did you see—?"

Another spirit lunged. Shina pivoted, and this time the wind curved with her movement, a sharp, spiraling current cleaving the thing in half.

Mirra was watching now. Not with anger.

With something else.

"You're bonded to this storm," Mirra muttered, almost to herself.

Shina's heart pounded.

More of them came.

The storm inside the vault churned, and the walls cracked as the Wind Wyrm's seal strained, ancient runes flickering.

Shina's instinct took over.

Light flickered in her palm — a glow she'd never summoned before. It arced through the mist, fusing with the wind, forcing the spirits back.

The failing runes surged brighter.

A voice, deep and distant, rumbled through the vault.

"Child of Light…"

The Wyrm was awake.

But Shina was standing now, her hair whipping in the storm, eyes sharp.

She wasn't leaving without sealing this vault.

Not tonight.

The storm in the vault churned violently as the wind spirits scattered, shrieking as Shina's burst of Light cut through them. The runes along the vault walls pulsed weakly, holding — barely.

Shina's breath came ragged, her hands still faintly glowing.

Mirra grabbed her shoulder, dragging her behind a half-collapsed column as debris fell from the ceiling.

"What the hell was that?" Mirra barked, eyes fierce.

"I—" Shina's voice cracked. "I don't know. It just… happened."

Mirra's gaze narrowed.
"That wasn't Wind magic, girl."

Darin stumbled over, blood on his cheek.
"She moved the storm — I saw it."

"No," Mirra said flatly. "She didn't move it. She bound it. That was Light."

Shina blinked, heart racing.
"Light?"

Mirra pointed to the old, flickering runes stabilizing the walls.
"Light bends the elements. It can calm storms, purify twisted magic, push back corrupted things. You didn't control the wind — you forced it to obey the old seals."

Another tremor hit. Dust poured from the ceiling.

"You saved us," Mirra added, voice rough, "but don't think for a second you own the wind. Not yet."

Shina's stomach twisted.

Then how…

Mirra's expression softened just a fraction.
"You've got power in you, Nermin. But if you want to command storms, you'll need to earn it like the rest — blood, fang, and fire."

Another distant roar sounded deeper in the vault.

Mirra jerked her chin toward the exit tunnels.
"Seal's holding. For now. Move."

Shina followed, heart pounding, the last of the glow fading from her hands.

Light… not wind.

Not yet.

The vault shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing across the walls as the last of the storm-spawned spirits scattered.

Mirra cursed.
"Seal's breaking again. Move! Everyone out, now!"

Darin grabbed a wounded rebel, hauling him toward the tunnels. The remaining fighters sprinted after.

Shina turned to follow — and that's when the tremor hit.

A section of ceiling cracked, stone breaking loose. A pulse of wind, sharper than a sword, tore through the chamber.

A sharp metallic object clattered against the stone near her feet.

It gleamed even in the gloom.

A jagged, silver-blue scale — no larger than her palm, edges sharp, its surface shimmering like glass under moonlight.

The moment her eyes landed on it, her chest tightened.
She didn't think.

She reached down, fingers closing around it.

A burst of cold shot up her arm.
The wind recoiled from her touch.

The storm bent around her.

Mirra, halfway to the exit, spun at the flare of energy.

Her eyes locked on the scale in Shina's hand — and for the first time, genuine alarm flashed across the woman's face.

"Drop it, Nermin," Mirra barked.

But Shina's hand refused to open. The scale pulsed once, a heartbeat against her palm.

Then the wind settled.

Not calm.

Waiting.

Mirra strode up, grabbed Shina's arm, and hauled her toward the exit.

"Keep it. That's yours now. And gods help you for it."

They ran.

The Wind Wyrm roared one last time as the runes flared and the vault sealed tight behind them.

The rebels burst out into the night air, ash falling like snow.

And Shina clutched the scale in her hand, knowing nothing would ever feel normal again.

The night was thick with ash.

Mazen sat on a boulder near the flickering campfire, the burned scale still in his palm. He turned it over, the thing feeling heavier than any weapon he'd ever carried.

The Howling Pact was in pieces.
Half their fighters gone. Calen's arm in a crude sling, blood staining his collar.

"You holding together?" Calen grunted, easing down beside him.

"Barely," Mazen muttered.

Calen glanced at the scale.
"Never seen anything like that. Shadow says you saved our skins. Even mine."

He offered a crooked grin.

"Guess you're one of us now, Mark."

Mazen didn't know how to answer that.

Shadow stood nearby, speaking in hushed tones with the last of their officers. His gaze flicked to Mazen now and then, something unreadable in his expression.

Across the valley, Shina sat with Mirra's rebels around a dying fire. The wind still shifted oddly near her.

Darin coughed, wiping dried blood from his face.
"We should be dead in that vault."

"We would've been," Mirra said flatly, "if not for her."

All eyes turned to Shina.

She kept the scale tucked tight in her hand, its pulse faint but steady.

Mirra leaned forward.
"You've got decisions to make, Nermin. That thing's bound to you now. That isn't just a weapon — it's a calling. You'll be hunted twice as hard for it."

"I didn't ask for this," Shina muttered.

"No one does," Mirra said. "Doesn't change what you are now."

A heavy silence settled over them as the wind hissed through the trees.

Both camps scattered and bleeding.

Both leaders realizing this war had just taken a darker turn.

And neither Mazen nor Shina knowing just how closely their fates were already tethered.