The night passed in an uneasy silence. Despite the cold wind and the remnants of the storm that raged in Soreil's chest, he managed to fall into a restless sleep. The battle had taken more out of him than he was willing to admit, both physically and mentally. The storm inside him still lingered, an ever-present hum beneath his skin that threatened to break free at the slightest provocation.
Soreil awoke with the first light of dawn, the fire from the night before little more than smoldering embers. He was still exhausted, his muscles aching from the fight with the beast. But there was no time to rest. They had to keep moving.
Lyra was already awake, her back to him as she gazed out over the ravine, her posture tense, as if she were waiting for something. Soreil noticed the way her shoulders were drawn tight, the slight tremor in her hands as she reached for her pack. She was always so controlled, so composed. But today, something was different.
"Lyra," Soreil called, his voice hoarse from sleep. "Are you okay?"
She stiffened at the sound of his voice but didn't turn around immediately. It took her a few moments before she finally spoke, her voice soft, almost hesitant.
"I'm fine," she said, her tone uncharacteristically flat. "We need to keep moving. The storm will catch up to us if we stay here too long."
Soreil narrowed his eyes, sensing that something was off. But he didn't press her. Lyra had never been one to talk about her emotions, and Soreil knew better than to try to pry into her personal thoughts. But the storm inside him seemed to grow restless at the thought. There was something in the air, something strange and foreboding that he couldn't shake.
As they packed their gear and began their journey forward, the terrain grew more rugged. The ground was littered with jagged rocks and debris, remnants of a world that had long since fallen into ruin. The sky above them was thick with clouds, casting everything beneath it in a dull, oppressive gray.
For hours, they walked in silence. Soreil's thoughts wandered as they made their way through the desolate landscape. The storm inside him was quieter now, but he could still feel its pull, like a whisper in the back of his mind, urging him to unleash it once more.
It was strange, this feeling of power. He had always known there was something different about him, something beyond the ordinary, but it wasn't until the Rift had torn open the world that he had truly understood the depths of his abilities. And yet, despite the strength he had gained, he still didn't fully understand it. The whispers from the Rift, the storm inside him—he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep it under control.
Suddenly, Lyra stopped, her hand shooting out to stop him as well. Her sharp eyes scanned the horizon, her body tense as she crouched low, signaling for him to do the same.
Soreil's heart skipped a beat. "What is it?" he whispered.
Lyra didn't answer right away. She studied the distance carefully, her breath steady despite the tension in the air. Then, with a quiet exhale, she stood up, her gaze turning toward the horizon. "I felt it," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "We're not alone."
Soreil's heart began to race. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he strained his senses. It was faint at first, but then he felt it—a ripple in the air, the faintest trace of energy. Something—or someone—was nearby.
The storm in Soreil's chest stirred, as if eager to face whatever threat was approaching. He didn't know why, but he could feel it—a presence, dark and powerful, lingering just out of sight. He wasn't sure what it was, but his instincts told him that they were walking right into something dangerous.
Lyra was already moving, her eyes sharp as she scanned the surroundings. "Stay close. Don't let your guard down."
Soreil nodded, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. They had been walking in this desolate wilderness for days, avoiding the beasts that roamed the area, but this felt different. There was something about the way the air felt—charged with an unsettling energy—that told him they were walking into the heart of something far darker than anything they had encountered before.
They walked in silence for another hour, the tension between them growing with each step. The ripple of energy continued to grow stronger, and Soreil could feel the storm inside him awakening once more. The whispers, faint but persistent, danced at the edges of his mind, urging him to act.
Finally, they came upon a clearing, a small patch of land surrounded by jagged rocks and twisted trees. And there, standing in the middle of the clearing, was a figure.
The figure was tall, its silhouette shrouded in shadow, and for a moment, Soreil thought it was just a mirage, a trick of the light. But then the figure stepped forward, and he saw the gleam of dark metal on its armor, the red glow of its eyes.
Soreil's breath caught in his throat. The figure was not human.
"Who are you?" Soreil demanded, his hand tightening on his sword. His heart pounded in his chest, the storm inside him surging, but he held it in check, waiting for the figure to make its move.
The figure didn't respond at first. It tilted its head slightly, its glowing eyes locked onto Soreil's with an unsettling intensity. The air around them seemed to crackle with energy, the silence stretching longer than it should.
Finally, the figure spoke. Its voice was low, deep, and carried a sense of ancient authority. "I am but a servant, marked by the storm. And you, Soreil, are a child of the Rift. Your power is a gift, one that was meant for something greater."
Soreil's hand tightened on his sword as the figure's words sank in. A servant of the storm? Marked by the Rift? He didn't know what to make of the figure's words, but he could feel the weight of them pressing down on him. The storm inside him grew restless, as though it recognized the presence of this being and knew that something was about to change.
The figure stepped forward, its movements slow and deliberate, and Soreil instinctively raised his sword. Lyra was already in motion beside him, her weapons drawn, her stance poised for battle.
But the figure didn't make a move. It only stared at Soreil, its eyes glowing brighter as the energy around them surged.
"You are not ready," it said, its voice a soft, eerie whisper that seemed to echo in Soreil's mind. "But soon… you will be."
Without another word, the figure turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving Soreil and Lyra standing alone in the clearing, the storm inside him raging once more.
Soreil felt his body tense, the power inside him threatening to burst free. He could feel the storm, the storm that had been with him since the Rift had torn open the world, now calling to him, demanding that he follow.
But he didn't move. Not yet.
Lyra stepped beside him, her expression unreadable. "What was that?"
Soreil swallowed hard, his mind racing. "I don't know. But whatever it is, it's connected to the storm. And it's coming for us."
They stood there for a long moment, the tension hanging thick in the air. Soreil knew, deep down, that things had changed. The storm, the Rift, the powers they had gained—it was all leading them toward something far greater than they could have imagined.
And now, it seemed, the storm was calling them.