A brisk breeze swept through the bustling square of Galehaven, carrying with it the scents of spiced meats and salt from the nearby coast. Stalls of tinkling trinkets and exotic silks lined the cobblestones, but it was the soft melody of a lone minstrel that drew the crowd's attention. Perched on a wooden barrel, Sylas plucked his lute with effortless grace, weaving a tune that seemed to coax the very air into dancing.
His voice, light and airy, rose in gentle crescendos:
"Ride upon the whispering breeze,
Where sky and ocean meet,
Let freedom guide your restless heart,
On wings both swift and fleet."
Children giggled as they spun in the gusts, merchants paused mid-sale, and travelers tipped their hats in admiration. Sylas smiled, letting the wind carry each note far beyond the square. Music was his life—until the moment the breeze changed.
In an instant, the wind stilled, and Sylas heard a single, haunting tone beneath his song: a low hum, like a cello's distant echo. He faltered on a chord, eyes narrowing as the hum grew louder, pulling him toward the cliff that overlooked the roaring sea.
"Another verse?" called a trader, but Sylas shook his head, gathering his lute. He thanked the crowd with a flourish and slipped away, following the hum's invisible thread down winding alleys to the edge of Galehaven's stone ramparts.
Below, waves crashed against jagged rocks. Above, gulls wheeled on thermal currents. But it was the sheer drop before him—the raw expanse of sky—that beckoned. There, embedded in a fissure of pale limestone, pulsed a shard no larger than a quill's feather. It glowed with a pale, silvery light, and around it, the wind seemed to swirl in perfect circles.
Sylas knelt and reached out. The moment his fingers brushed the shard's smooth surface, a gale roared to life. His cloak snapped from his shoulders and whipped around him. The shard's glow intensified, illuminating his determined face. He felt the wind's heartbeat in his veins—an exhilarating rush that set his pulse racing.
Visions flickered in his mind: soaring atop cyclones, the world spinning beneath him, voices of ancient voices chanting:
"Heed the call of the Zephyr Seer,
And let the storm within you steer."
Sylas gasped and lost his grip, sending the shard clattering onto the ledge. The wind snapped his hair around his face, then, as quickly as it had come, fell silent. The shard lay still, its glow dim but persistent.
A soft cough drew his attention. From the shadows of a ruined watchtower stepped a tall figure cloaked in sea-green robes. Riven, the scholar-minstrel who had drifted through coastal towns for years, regarded Sylas with keen, storm-gray eyes.
"You heard it, then," Riven said, his voice a calm counterpoint to the lingering wind. "The shard calls only those whose spirit dances with the breeze."
Sylas rose, clutching his lute. "Who are you?" he asked, heart still hammering.
"Merely a seeker of truths," Riven replied, stepping closer to retrieve the shard. He examined it as if memorizing every ripple of its surface. "I have studied the old legends—you, my friend, have found a fragment of the Wind Crystal."
Sylas stared. "The Wind Crystal… the one that controlled the skies?"
Riven nodded, tucking the shard into a hidden pocket inside his robe. "Long ago, the Zephyr Sentinel wielded it to calm storms and guide lost ships. When the great crystals shattered, its power was thought lost. But shards endure—and they choose new bearers."
Sylas felt a shiver—not of cold, but of anticipation. "What must I do?"
Riven smiled faintly and drew a slender feather from beneath his cloak, placing it in Sylas's hand. "This is a token of the Zephyr Court. Keep it close. It will help you attune to the shard's power." He pointed toward the horizon, where dark clouds gathered. "Come dawn, meet me at the Windswept Cliffs. There we will begin your trial: to summon a gale with a single breath, to bend the air around you without song or shard."
Sylas pressed the feather to his chest. "And after that?"
"We seek the other shards," Riven said, glancing north. "Fire has awakened in Elderglen. Soon, Water and Earth will follow. When the four are reunited, the balance of Aetherion may yet be restored—or broken forever."
A distant bell tolled the hour. Sylas sheathed his lute and folded the feather into his tunic. "Then I will be there," he promised.
Riven inclined his head. "Good. Rest now, for the wind's path is as demanding as it is free. Tomorrow, you leave the safety of this town and walk a road of storms."
As Sylas descended the rocky path back toward Galehaven, he felt the feather's gentle tickle against his heart—and somewhere in the sky, a lone cloud shifted, as if answering his unspoken vow. The wind had found its new champion, and the song of adventure had only just begun.