Khaltar halted, breath catching in his throat. The Prophet, his hunched, twisted frame barely holding together, grinned wider, revealing gums blackened by time and decay. "You wish to know the truth, warlord?"
He stretched his arms toward the sky, his voice rasping like a dying wind. "Then hear it, and tremble."
The world was not as Khaltar had thought. It was far older, far crueler, and far less forgiving.
There were things that slumbered beneath the heavens—beasts that were never meant to wake.
In the heart of the Emerald Oasis, where water shimmered green and the air smelled of fresh life, the greatest storm in history lay sleeping. Typhórax was not a beast of flesh and blood, but of howling wind and endless hunger.
His form was an amalgamation of tornados, cyclones, and unrelenting gales, his body stretching miles into the sky. His four wings, sharp as obsidian, could cut through mountains, and his six burning eyes, each the color of a dying storm, saw into the souls of all who dared stand before him.
It is said that when Typhórax awakens, the sky itself will split open, and all winds will belong to him.
Deep within Whispering Palms, where the wind hummed lullabies through the trees, something older than words coiled beneath the roots.
Zephyroth was a serpent of wind and shadow, his body stretching longer than any river, his fangs dripping with venom that dissolved flesh into dust. He did not roar, nor did he rage—his breath alone stole the voices from the air, leaving only silence.
It is said that when Zephyroth moves, he does so without sound, bringing death before fear can take hold.
The Crystal Lagoon, known for its pure waters, was far colder than it should have been. That was because Borealus slept beneath it.
Borealus was a behemoth of ice and mist, a frozen colossus with jagged wings that could summon blizzards with a single beat. His breath froze oceans, his body blotted out the sky, and his rage was a storm that never ended. When Borealus stirs, the world shall know a storm that never ends.
In the Sandy Shores, where the waves caressed the land, the sand beneath the surface concealed something monstrous.
Aellomir was a skyborne terror, his body covered in razor-sharp golden feathers, his wingspan larger than mountains. His talons, each the size of a warship, could rip apart entire cities in a single swipe.
When Aellomir awakens, he shall hunt the sky, for no creature is permitted to fly but him.
Beneath the Atoll Paradise, a land where the sea kissed the shore, a nameless terror waited.
Notus'Khaal was a writhing beast, a nightmare of sand and wind, with hundreds of wings and mouths, all howling in unison. His body was a living storm, his hunger without limit.
"He does not eat." The Prophet whispered. "He erases."
When Notus'Khaal rises, the land shall be swallowed into the void.
In Serenity Bay, where the waters whispered against the cliffs, a thing of nightmares slumbered.
Anemoxis had no form, no shape, no face. He was the storm itself, an entity of pure chaos whose voice shattered minds, whose presence drove armies to slaughter their own kin.
It is said that when Anemoxis awakens, there shall be no more sanity—only screaming.
Beneath Sunset Cove, where lovers whispered their last words to the setting sun, time itself was wrong.
Eurus'Zan was a storm unlike any other, for he did not move with the winds—he moved with time.
"He was not created." The Prophet said. "He always was, and always will be."
Eurus'Zan's wings beat against the fabric of existence itself, his eyes looking not forward, but across eternity. When Eurus'Zan wakes, the past and future shall collapse into the storm.
The warlord staggered backward. This… this was impossible. This could not be real. And yet… The sky itself darkened. The winds grew still.
And the Prophet's grin only widened. "Now, do you see?"
Khaltar clenched his fists. "We will all die."
The Prophet laughed. "Oh no, warlord. We will all be forgotten."
As they stepped onto the dry, golden plains of the Endless Savannah, the Prophet suddenly whistled—a sharp, eerie sound that cut through the silence like a knife.
The wind shifted. Then came the screech. High above the sky, something moved. Not just one—but two.
From the stormy veil of the heavens, winged horrors swooped down, their silhouettes shifting, warping, unnatural.
Their flesh was neither scale nor feather, but something in between—translucent like stretched storm clouds, crackling with pulses of raw energy.
They had four legs, each ending in talons sharper than a blacksmith's finest blade, and two sets of wings—one vast and leathery, the other thin and jagged like torn storm clouds.
Their faces were the worst of all—no eyes, only a gaping maw lined with rows of jagged, overlapping teeth. Their long, forked tongues flickered out like lightning strikes, tasting the air.
One landed before the Prophet, its breath a gale strong enough to bend the surrounding grass.
Another followed, landing before Khaltar and Jhon, its wings folding in jagged, unnatural movements.
"You ride or you die," the Prophet said simply.
Khaltar narrowed his eyes, but he stepped forward without hesitation. He grabbed the creature's thick, stormy mane and hoisted himself atop its back.
Jhon hesitated. The beast's unnatural form unsettled him. "Where… are we going?" Jhon asked, gripping the creature's back tightly.
The Prophet, already perched on his mount, turned his twisted, grinning face. "To the passage of kings. The narrow cliffs of Sol-Mayora and Sol-Minora, where the ancient kings of the lost era were buried beneath the crumbling tombs of time."
Jhon's stomach dropped. "You mean the Secret Passage? A place whispered in old tales—a graveyard of forgotten rulers, shrouded in mist, guarded by things that should not wake."
The Prophet simply grinned. Then, with a single shriek, the beasts leapt into the sky.
Jhon gripped the storm-beast's mane tightly, feeling the air rip past his face like a thousand knives. The creature's body crackled with energy, leaving a faint trail of lightning in the sky as it soared.
"What the hell is this thing?!" Jhon shouted over the roaring wind.
The Prophet barely turned his head, his tattered cloak whipping violently behind him. "Outsiders like you wouldn't know." His tone was dismissive, but there was a glint of amusement in his dead, sunken eyes.
Jhon gritted his teeth. Damn this cryptic bastard. "Then enlighten me."
The Prophet exhaled, shaking his head. "They are the remnants of the sky's wrath—creatures born from the first storm that tore this world apart."
Jhon frowned. That explained nothing.
"They are called the Tempest Maw," Khaltar interjected, speaking for the first time since they took flight. "Ancient creatures, bound to the winds. They hunt not with eyes, but with storms."
Jhon glanced at his mount, feeling its unnatural body shift beneath him. Bound to the winds? He didn't like the sound of that.
The Tempest Maws swooped lower, weaving between jagged peaks of black stone as they approached the highest mountain in the region—the Tomb of the Ancient Kings.
The air grew thin and cold, the sky above darkened, and the land below was nothing but endless mist.
Then, with an almost unnatural stillness, the creatures landed. Jhon slid off the beast, his legs shaky from the ride.
The Prophet stepped forward, his hunched body casting an eerie shadow against the ruins ahead. "We are here to find the map of the Guardians."
Khaltar exhaled sharply. He already suspected as much.
The Prophet continued, his tone almost reverent. "Only the Ancient Kings possessed it. And it is buried… within them."
Jhon's stomach tightened. "You mean—"
The Prophet turned, his decayed smile widening. "Yes. We're digging up the dead."
The ancient tomb loomed over them, its towering pillars worn by centuries of relentless wind. The air grew heavier, almost suffocating, as if the very mountain was holding its breath. Dust and time had settled over the burial chamber, untouched by mortal hands for hundreds of years. Then, suddenly.
"Stop." The Prophet's voice cut through the silence like a dagger. His twisted, bony fingers stretched forward, pointing at a massive sarcophagus standing at the center of the chamber.
Khaltar and Jhon froze. Even the air itself seemed to still. The sarcophagus was carved from obsidian, its surface etched with sigils of a forgotten language. Though age had dulled its shine, it still pulsed with an unsettling presence. A warrior's effigy lay on the lid, hands gripping a massive sword across his chest.
"Khaltar," the Prophet rasped. "Place your hand upon it."
Khaltar hesitated. A deep, unfamiliar dread clawed at his chest. "Why me?"
The Prophet tilted his head, his empty eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight. "Because he is your ancestor. And you are his last descendant."
Khaltar's breath caught in his throat. Jhon stared in disbelief. "That's impossible—"
The Prophet shook his head. "You were never truly an orphan, Khaltar. You come from a bloodline long thought to be extinct. Even Torgo, the man who raised you, never knew the truth."
A cold chill ran down Khaltar's spine. "Then who am I?"
The Prophet's voice deepened, carrying the weight of centuries. "You are the last of the Stormborn Clan—the lost warriors of the sky."
Khaltar's vision blurred. He knew the name. Everyone knew the name. The Stormborn.
A clan of legendary warriors who vanished centuries ago, erased from history. Some said they had perished in a war against the gods, others claimed they had fled into the sky itself, riding the winds like ghosts. But no one knew the truth.
"That's not possible. The Stormborn were wiped out."
The Prophet took a step closer. His presence felt colder now, like the breath of a corpse. "Yes… they were. Betrayed by those they called allies. Slaughtered to the last child."
He gestured toward the sarcophagus. "All but one."
Khaltar's heart pounded. "Me?"
The Prophet smiled—a slow, eerie grin. "You were found as a baby. Floating in a basket, carried by the river's current. Torgo believed it was fate that brought you to him."
He shook his head. "But it was not fate. It was survival. Your people sent you away before the massacre. You are the last blood of the Stormborn."
Silence hung heavy in the air. Khaltar looked at the sarcophagus, then at his hands. His whole life, he had felt like an outsider, like something inside him did not belong. Was this why? Was this why the Prophet had sought him out?
"I don't believe it." His voice was barely a whisper.
The Prophet laughed, dry and hollow. "Your blood believes. And now, it will wake."
Khaltar hesitated for only a moment longer, then—slowly, reluctantly—he placed his hand on the sarcophagus. The moment his fingers touched the stone, the entire tomb shook.
A blinding pulse of energy shot through the chamber. The runes on the sarcophagus ignited with white fire, and the ancient warrior's name echoed in Khaltar's mind like a storm: "Khazir the Tempest."
The last Stormborn King. Khaltar's knees nearly buckled. This wasn't just a story. This was real. He was the heir of a forgotten empire. And for the first time in his life… His past had finally found him.