The boy moved like a ghost through the village—a stranger with storm-colored eyes and no past, working odd jobs and never staying long. No name. No family. Just a glint in his gaze like thunder held its breath behind his ribs.
He didn't know why the dreams haunted him.
He didn't know who the girl with fire in her voice was.
But he knew one thing:
The sky was watching.
The village of Aelmoor sat at the edge of the Emberwood, a quiet place where nothing strange was supposed to happen. But when the boy arrived a month ago—barefoot, bruised, and barely breathing—the winds changed.
People noticed. People whispered.
He worked at the blacksmith's forge now, earning his keep in sweat and silence. The hammer felt too small in his hands. The fire too tame.
"You've got a storm in your eyes," the smith said once, half-joking.
The boy just smiled. Or maybe grimaced. No one could tell.
No name, no past. The villagers called him Ash—because that's what they found him in.
And that's what he felt like. Remnants of something burned.
---
That morning, the sky pulsed red before dawn.
Ash was already awake, standing at the cliffs beyond the village, staring into the mist-choked valley. Something in him stirred—something old and angry, like a voice forgotten.
That's when he saw her.
A rider. Cloaked. Fast.
She cut through the fog like a blade, her horse kicking up sparks on the stone. She stopped just before the path turned to forest, dismounted, and scanned the cliffside.
Her gaze met his. Sharp. Unafraid.
And familiar.
"Step away from the edge," she said, voice smooth and cold.
Ash didn't move.
"Did you not hear me?" she asked again, walking toward him.
"I heard you," he said, quiet.
"Then move."
"Why?"
"Because I was sent to find the one who shouldn't exist. And if it's you, you're coming with me."
Ash tilted his head. "And if I say no?"
She smiled. But it wasn't kind.
"Then I'll make you."
Ash didn't back down. The girl stepped closer.
Her cloak shifted just enough to reveal the hilt of a blade—slender, gold-lined, humming faintly with heat. Not ordinary steel. Mageforged.
"You're not from around here," Ash said.
She raised a brow. "Neither are you."
The wind blew sharp between them.
Ash's jaw twitched. "You think I'm someone important."
"No," she replied. "I know someone important disappeared thirteen years ago. And every storm since has whispered the same thing."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You."
Ash scoffed, though something inside him itched—burned.
"I'm a blacksmith's errand boy."
"You're lying."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Their eyes locked. A gust of wind tore through the valley behind them. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. Ash didn't flinch—but she did notice his breath mist the air just as lightning cracked far beyond the clouds.
A trick of the wind?
Or a sign?
Before either could speak again, the ground trembled. A sound—like stone cracking open—came from the edge of the cliffside path.
The moment stretched thin.
The girl hadn't moved. Neither had Ash. But the air between them rippled—shimmered—as if the world had blinked.
And then… something shifted.
It began beneath the cliff, in the stone. A faint hum, like wind whistling through crystal. Then light—thin as a thread—rose from a crack in the earth and coiled upward. It twisted through the air like a serpent, glimmering blue-white, vanishing as quickly as it came.
Ash stepped back, heart pounding. His hands trembled, though not from fear.
The girl froze.
"…Did you feel that?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to—but because he couldn't. Something inside him was answering it. The hum wasn't outside—it was in him. Resonating.
"I've only seen that magic once," she said, more to herself than to him. "A soul resonance. Forbidden since the Second Sundering."
Ash blinked. "What does that mean?"
"It means," she said carefully, "that either you're something very old… or something very wrong."
The wind picked up. The hum faded. The light was gone.
The cliffside looked normal again.
But nothing felt normal.
And far away, in a tower of glass and gold, a thousand-year-old oracle opened her eyes for the first time in decades—and whispered:
"The storm breathes again."
They stood in silence as the light faded.
Ash exhaled, slow. The storm inside him had quieted—but not fully. The tremble in his fingers was gone, but the echo still rang behind his ribs.
The girl finally broke the silence. "Tell me your name."
"I don't have one."
"Liar."
He didn't deny it.
She stepped forward, her tone sharp now. "Where are you from?"
"Here. There. I don't know."
"You know something."
"I know how to swing a hammer. I know the smell of rain before it falls. I know I've never seen magic like that before." He paused. "Have you?"
She didn't answer. Just stared at him with eyes like steel cooling too fast.
"…No," she finally said. "But I've heard whispers. In the records we're not allowed to read. Magic that responds to souls, not spells."
"And that's bad?"
"It's impossible."
Ash smirked faintly. "Guess I'm special."
She didn't smile back. "Or cursed."
With that, she turned.
Ash watched her walk away, her cloak snapping in the wind. But before she disappeared into the trees, she called out—
"My name's Elira."
A pause.
"If you start hearing whispers in the lightning… don't follow them."
And then she was gone.
Ash stood there a while longer, staring at the sky. A distant thunder rolled again.
And though the sky was clear, a single drop of rain fell onto his hand.