The wind never truly stopped in the lands once ruled by the Tempestuous Kingdom. It howled through the broken peaks and danced along the cliffs, whispering the ghost-songs of a nation long lost.
A hundred years ago, it had been a kingdom of sky-chariots, floating watchtowers, and stone sails that caught the wind like fabric. Their soldiers rode gusts and currents as naturally as other kingdoms rode horses. The Tempestuous Kingdom wasn't the largest, nor the most militarized, but it was the most agile—untouchable to ground-based enemies.
Its people had once been called the Dancers of the Sky, known for artistry in both battle and beauty. Their cities were light but layered, built with seamless stone, open-air temples, and bridges that only Wind Casters could cross.
But then the Shaded Kingdom came.
And with it, silence.
What the dark armies couldn't destroy from below, they brought down from above, cracking the floating platforms with gravity spells and suffocating the winds themselves. The war was swift, cruel, and left the proud kingdom in scattered pieces.
Now, all that remained were thirteen Wind Tribes, drifting like their element—restless, rootless. Villages rose and fell with the wind. Most people barely remembered the true Tempestuous Kingdom—only the oldest kept the stories alive.
---
In one of those wandering tribes—now nestled in a narrow canyon far to the west—a pair of aging guardians kept watch by a fire, whispering prayers to the wind.
"It's been nearly two weeks," the man said, staring into the dark.
"She's alive," the old woman whispered, her hands clasped at her chest. "The Divine Master of Wind has not abandoned her. I feel it."
"She vanished when the Duke's men swept through. Not a sign. Not a sound. No tracks but storm scars."
"She was wrapped in royal cloth when we found her," the woman murmured. "The wind wouldn't carry her this far only to take her back."
They said nothing more. Just sat in silence while the charms above them spun gently in the breeze.
---
Far across the ridgeways and winding paths, Neil and Zephyra were making their way toward the canyon.
The sun was dipping behind scattered clouds. Long shadows crawled across the cracked earth as wind chased dust between their boots.
Zephyra glanced over.
"Back there… when you fought the Duke," she said softly. "How did you move like that? You didn't just fight him—you read him. Like a book."
Neil shrugged. "I watched. Listened."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
He paused a moment, then offered a faint smile. "My master… he taught me to read people's aura before I read their words. And he taught me about Wind Casters too."
Her curiosity sharpened. "Really?"
Neil nodded. "He said Wind Casters don't rely on brute strength or direct blows. They rely on sensation—pressure, shift, flow. The best ones can feel someone move behind them from the way the wind changes across their cheek."
Zephyra blinked, stunned. "I've… never thought of it like that."
"You shouldn't fight like me," Neil added. "You're not built for direct combat. Your element's all about space and rhythm. Keep your distance. Make the terrain yours."
She walked in silence for a bit.
Then: "Can you teach me?"
Neil looked over, thoughtful.
She added quickly, "Not just how to fight like you. I want to learn to fight right. For who I am."
He gave a small nod. "Alright. Show me the bow again."
Zephyra grinned. She raised Whisperwind, drawing the string back.
No arrow.
But the air shimmered, condensing, forming a thin line of compressed wind—a glowing, translucent spear of pressure and force.
She released.
It disappeared—silent and instant—and a distant rock split in half.
"See?" she said, beaming. "No need for arrows."
Neil's eyes followed the broken stone. "Good. But don't shoot unless you've got range and clear air. Wind is freedom—but you've got to guide it."
She nodded.
The wind picked up again, rustling her hair and tugging at Neil's cloak as they continued walking, the canyon looming in the distance.
---
The tribute collector's boots crunched through the scorched courtyard of Duke Caligo's ruined compound. Two days had passed since the appointed date of collection, and there had been no word. No messenger. No shipment of relics, enchanted scraps, or ancestral treasures from the Wind Tribes.
Silence was unacceptable.
The collector's long black coat fluttered as he surveyed the remains. Piles of charred wood and cracked stone littered the outer defenses. Burned wind-charms still hung from splintered posts. Someone had fought here—and won.
He finally found a lone survivor slumped against a half-toppled wall: a guard, breathing shallowly, wrapped in blood-soaked cloth.
The collector crouched beside him.
"Where is the Duke?" he asked, voice as flat and cold as steel.
The guard winced. "He left. Two days ago."
"Left where?"
The man pointed shakily toward the northeast woods. "Saw a fire… smoke. He thought it was a Wind Tribe camp. Took most of the others with him. I was too injured to follow."
The collector stared at the wind-swept path for a moment.
"You'll take me there."
---
The clearing had been scorched clean by aura. Rings of lightning-charred grass spiraled outward from the center. The Duke's body lay still near the shattered stump of a tree, his armor split and cracked open across the ribs, black aura long since dissipated.
The tribute collector's eyes narrowed.
"So… this is what became of him."
He turned to the guard. "What happened here?"
The soldier swallowed hard. "He fought someone. A boy. Strange one—dark skin, red hair, fast. He fought with… I don't know. It wasn't fire. It was light, but violent. Like thunder. It made the air scream."
The tribute collector blinked once.
"…Lightning?"
"There's no way. Lightning's extinct. Isn't it?"
The collector looked back down at the Duke's defeated body.
"…Perhaps. Perhaps not."
He reached into his coat and removed a small obsidian orb. Whispering into it in the old tongue, he activated the shard with a ripple of aura. It floated upward slowly, then darted skyward like a black comet.
To the Shaded King:
An anomaly has been discovered.
Duke Caligo Varn has been defeated.
Description of the possible attacker:
Unknown boy. Red hair. Dark skin.
Casting resemblance: Lightning.
Possible hoax. Further investigation underway.
---
Meanwhile, Zephyra and Neil entered the canyon village of the Wind Tribe.
The moment the villagers spotted them, murmurs turned to exclamations.
"Zephyra!"
"Is that really her?"
The children were the first to reach her, and soon after came her guardians—faces tearful, voices rising in joy and disbelief. They pulled her into their arms, the older woman kissing her forehead again and again, while the man grunted and muttered, "Next time, at least tell someone, will you?"
Then all eyes turned to Neil.
Whispers rippled through the gathering crowd.
"His hair…"
"That's not wind aura…"
"Who is he?"
Zephyra turned to her guardians. "Please, we need to speak with the Elder."
They were led through the winding stairs of the village into the Elder's Hall. The inside was quiet, carved from wind-polished stone and decorated with old tribal tapestries. At the far end sat the Wind Elder, his beard like white mist, his eyes cloudy but sharp.
The moment Neil stepped inside, the Elder's posture shifted.
He stood slowly.
Then bowed.
Low.
"I never thought I would live long enough," the Elder said, "to witness a Lightning Caster with my own eyes."
The room gasped.
"They're extinct," someone whispered.
"No… they were believed extinct," the Elder said, gesturing to a large weatherworn mural across the back wall.
It depicted the Divine Master of Wind, suspended in a cyclone, while beside him stood a warrior cloaked in streaks of lightning—dark-skinned, red-haired, arms outstretched, hurling bolts into the sky.
"Our ancestors recorded this moment during the Great Chaos. Lightning and Wind fought side by side. It is written that when lightning returns to the land… so too will the winds begin to shift once more."
Zephyra glanced at Neil. He remained still, unsure what to say.
"You came here for a reason," the Elder continued. "I believe we may know why."
---
Later that evening, the Elder invited Neil and Zephyra into his private chamber.
"There is a place," he said, "hidden within the cliffs beyond the river basin. A fragment of the old Tempestuous Kingdom. A ruined temple, where many truths may lie buried."
Neil nodded. "I'll go."
Zephyra looked up quickly. "Alone?"
Neil's expression was calm. "It's too risky. The Shaded King might have troops nearby. I can slip through easier by myself."
Zephyra shook her head. "No."
"You've done enough," he said gently.
"No. I haven't." Her voice was firm. "I want to be of use to you, Neil. I don't want to stand behind while you walk into danger alone."
They locked eyes for a long moment.
Finally, Neil sighed.
"…Alright. You come. But you follow my lead."
Zephyra smiled faintly. "Always."
---
The Princess of the Burning Kingdom sat cross-legged on her crimson-lined window ledge, the firelight casting golden glints in her deep copper hair. Her skin was a rich, warm brown—like bronze kissed by sunlight—and her amber eyes flickered with quiet fury. She wore a sleeveless black-and-scarlet robe, belted at the waist, and her boots were still marked by soot from her earlier training.
She was young—but not naive.
They called her Princess Kaelira, flame of the future.
And right now, she stared out across the glowing rooftops of Scorchgate, the capital of the Burning Kingdom, with a look of utter disgust.
"They're here," she muttered.
Below, she could see the silver-cloaked Royal Guards of the Shaded Kingdom walking the outer corridor like vultures in a feast hall.
We're feeding our enemies in the name of peace.
The Fire Elder—her grandfather's old advisor—had welcomed them. Claimed it was for diplomacy. Claimed it was a "chance to hear the Shaded King's words."
The Shaded King doesn't speak. He conquers.
Kaelira's hands balled into fists.
What sickened her most was that her own brother—Prince Ralik—had supported the Fire Elder's decision.
Ralik, the golden boy. Shorter than her by a few fingers, with his polished obsidian armor and tidy crimson hair pulled back into a warrior's knot. He looked like a prince—but to her, he no longer acted like one.
That night, just before curfew, Kaelira spotted him leaving the palace through a back gate.
Silently, she grabbed her black cloak and leapt from the ledge.
---
She followed from the shadows.
Ralik moved like someone with a purpose, darting through narrow alleys until he reached a quiet archway lit by an ember lamp. A figure waited for him—tall, cloaked, unnaturally broad-shouldered.
Kaelira crouched behind a barrel, barely daring to breathe.
The cloaked figure stepped forward. Its voice was deep, guttural, like flame rumbling through gravel.
"Are the preparations complete?"
"Yes," Ralik said. "They believe the Shaded King comes in peace."
The figure sniffed the air suddenly.
Kaelira froze.
"…You've been followed," the figure growled. "Feminine. Young."
Kaelira's heart slammed in her chest.
She didn't wait.
She fled silently, taking the back route toward her room, not daring to look back.
But the sound of claws dragging against stone echoed faintly in her ears.
---
Elsewhere, in the cliff-ridden outskirts where wind howled between canyon teeth, Neil and Zephyra camped on the edge of the old path that led to the Temple of the Tempestuous King.
Zephyra sat cross-legged, flipping through the bark-bound manual Neil had returned to her.
The text was hand-scribed in curling symbols and faded ink. Diagrams of open-palmed stances, pressure-sensing techniques, and whispered wind-speech techniques filled its pages.
"Let the wind know your heart. Let the air feel your intent. Then it will guide you."
She closed her eyes and let her breath sync with the wind.
Neil, nearby, sat still in a silent pose. His eyes were closed, but his thoughts were loud.
He remembered the teachings of his master.
"Infiltration requires rhythm. Learn the pulse of the enemy. If you can match it, you can step between the beats."
He saw his master's figure—tall, faceless in memory—training him across rooftops, through shadowy ruins, over broken bridges.
"But remember, Neil. In this world, you fight alone. The more people you trust, the more weaknesses you create."
And yet…
He opened one eye to glance at Zephyra.
She was mimicking the wind technique again, lips moving faintly as she breathed with the air. Her movements were rough. Undisciplined. But determined.
She's growing.
He looked back down, the weight of his master's words still echoing in his chest.
He was supposed to walk alone.
But maybe—just maybe—the storm didn't have to travel without the wind.
---
The cliffs rose higher the deeper they went.
The path to the Temple of the Tempestuous King was narrow and weathered, winding like a spine through broken stone and swaying trees. The wind here wasn't gentle—it cut. But Neil and Zephyra pushed forward, one step at a time.
Zephyra adjusted Whisperwind on her back, brushing dust from the manual tucked beneath her arm. "You think the temple's still standing?"
"Standing?" Neil replied. "Maybe. Guarded? Definitely."
They stopped at the edge of a cracked overlook. Below them, through the drifting mists, lay the first glimpse of it: a broken dome carved from sky-stone, half-buried in the mountain's heart. Faded flags snapped in the wind—bearing the crest of a swirling gale.
Neil crouched and scanned the area. "Footprints. Several. Fresh."
"Scouts?" Zephyra whispered.
"Worse," Neil said. "Soldiers."
They stayed low, moving forward with caution, unaware of the new enemy closing in from the other direction.
---
Back in the canyon village, the tribute collector stood in the middle of the stone plaza.
His aura was cold. He looked like a man made from night itself—long, sharp, draped in layered black robes. Around him, five small orbs of living darkness floated in a slow orbit, each one humming faintly with malevolent energy.
"I'm looking for someone," he said flatly.
The villagers stood silent.
He raised a hand.
The orbs spun once and stopped in place, each one aimed at a different target.
"Red hair. Dark skin. Carries lightning. I was told he came this way."
Still, no answer.
The collector gave no warning.
Three of the orbs surged forward—ripping through flesh. Three villagers collapsed, lifeless.
Gasps and screams followed.
The collector looked around again, eyes half-lidded.
"Try again."
One of the elders fell to his knees. "He left for the mountains. He… he went with the girl. Zephyra."
The orbs pulled back, once more floating at the collector's side like pets.
He turned, satisfied.
"I'll wait here," he said. "If he lives through the temple, I'll be here when he returns."
---
In Scorchgate, the capital of the Burning Kingdom, Princess Kaelira moved with the grace of a cat through the palace archives.
She had followed her brother's strange midnight meeting, but hadn't seen the full face of the snouted figure. Not yet. Now, she searched the old records for any signs of animalistic casters or hybrid beings once known to exist in the realm.
What she found instead was more disturbing.
One scroll spoke of a mercenary general from the past—brilliant, brutal, known for his hatred of Fire Casters. A man who disappeared from history after the war, leaving behind only the name Wolfkhan.
And a vague mention of an artifact known as the Inner Beast.
Her blood chilled.
Is that who my brother is dealing with?
She closed the scroll, just as the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.
She bolted into the shadows, heart pounding.
Through a crack in the wall, she saw Ralik—her brother—walking with the Fire Elder, whispering in hushed tones.
The Fire Elder, tall and robed in crimson silk, was bald and wrinkled, with eyes like smoldering coal. His movements were slow but deliberate, and Kaelira could see… hesitation in his posture.
He's not fully convinced either, she thought. But he's too bound by tradition to stop what's coming.
---
Back at the cliffs, Neil crouched behind a fallen stone archway near the temple's crumbling entrance. He motioned for Zephyra to stop.
Three soldiers stood near the gate—two carrying short spears tipped with dark steel, the third holding a flame lantern infused with cursed wind.
Neil closed his eyes.
"Distraction first. Confuse the rhythm."
He picked up a pebble, flicked it off the far wall.
The soldiers turned.
In that instant, he was gone.
Zephyra watched as Neil appeared behind one, struck the back of his neck, then rolled under a spear sweep and disabled the second with a lightning flash across the legs. The third didn't even see him coming.
All three fell without a word.
Neil motioned forward.
"This is just the outer ring," he said. "The real temple's deeper in. We move fast."
Zephyra nodded. "I'm ready."
They slipped into the dark, unaware that shadows were already waiting behind them… back in the village, coiled like a trap.