The basin stank of ash.
Mazen pulled his scarf higher over his mouth, though it did nothing to block out the reek of scorched earth and charred bone. The earth beneath his boots cracked and steamed in places, little plumes of heat rising from deep fissures in the ground.
Shadow led the way in silence, his dark cloak blending with the burnt stone. Behind them, Calen and the other Howling Pact rebels moved in grim formation.
The temple loomed ahead.
A jagged silhouette of stone, half-sunken into the side of a jagged mountain. Old banners long turned to tatters hung from splintered columns. Red light shimmered above it — not fire, but something older, raw and unnatural.
And from somewhere deep beneath the earth came the faint, rhythmic thrum of a beast's slow, ancient breath.
Mazen felt it.
In his chest.
In the marrow of his bones.
A pulse of heat, anger, and hunger that wasn't his.
Shadow glanced back. "Feel it, don't you?"
Mazen swallowed, his voice rough. "What the hell is this place?"
"The Fire Serpent stirs," Shadow muttered. "It's been bound in that mountain since the Second War of Blood. But something's changed. The old bindings are failing."
Mazen's hand clenched around the hilt of his dagger.
The same cold pulse that had saved him in the last skirmish flickered at the edge of his senses again. Like a shadow waiting to crawl free.
Calen pointed ahead. "Movement by the outer shrine."
Mazen followed his gaze.
Figures in tattered Crown uniforms moved between the ruined arches — and behind them, cages. Prisoners.
No time for questions.
No room for doubt.
"Positions," Shadow growled.
Mazen's stomach twisted, the heat thickening around them like a warning.
The basin was about to bleed.
The wind howled ceaselessly through the ravine.
Shina pulled her cloak tighter, the cold cutting sharper than it should. The path leading to the ancient shrine was half-buried in rubble, old stone columns cracked and leaning like the ribs of some dead god.
They made camp there, half-hidden from sight.
Mirra knelt beside a ruined altar, tracing her fingers across weathered carvings — long-dead symbols that once called to the Wind Wyrm itself. The storm above churned unnaturally, a spiraling mass of gray clouds and streaks of sickly green lightning.
"This place isn't right," one of the scouts muttered.
"It hasn't been for years," Mirra replied. "But it's worse now. The air's too sharp."
Shina felt it too.
Not just the cold.
But a pressure. A presence.
Like the mountain itself watched them.
As she stepped past the altar, a sudden gust slammed down the ravine. The others staggered, cursing — but around Shina, the air bent. Moved.
Not against her.
With her.
The wind curled around her shoulders like invisible hands.
A memory surged — the gust that had saved her on the mountainside days ago.
Was that me?
Another gale howled, sending pebbles skittering along the stone.
"Storm's breaking loose again," Mirra called. "Keep close."
Shina's fingers brushed a fragment of ancient stone, half-buried beneath the dust. A dull, faded scale. Smooth. Cool. It hummed faintly under her touch.
She snatched her hand back, heart pounding.
The wind snapped harder.
And somewhere far above, thunder cracked like an angry god's laugh.
It began with silence.
No wind. No movement.
Just a suffocating stillness that made Mazen's warband freeze mid-step.
Shadow lifted a hand.
Even the mercenaries holding the prisoner cages paused, eyes narrowing at the sudden hush.
Then, without warning, the sky above the Fire Serpent's temple split open.
A crack of lightning seared through the clouds — not white, not blue, but a jagged bolt of deep crimson, tearing the night sky in half. The thunder that followed was so deep it felt like the world itself flinched.
The ground under Mazen's feet lurched. A pulse of heat rolled through the basin, carrying with it a sound that wasn't wind, wasn't rock.
A breath.
A vast, ancient thing stirring far beneath them.
Mazen's fingers clenched involuntarily around his dagger. The old pulse of dark energy inside him flared again, unbidden, as though called by the storm.
Miles away at the Wind Wyrm's shrine, the same unnatural lightning arced through the clouds.
Mirra's rebels dropped to cover, but Shina remained standing, the wind snapping her cloak around her. The storm twisted above them like a living thing.
And she felt it.
The air moved with her thoughts. The wind wrapped around her like a shield.
The lightning struck a distant peak, sending a shockwave through the valley that rattled the shrine stones.
Mirra cursed, pulling Shina down.
"That's not natural stormwork. The temples are waking."
Shina's pulse roared in her ears.
She couldn't see the Fire Serpent's basin from here — but she knew, somehow, Mazen was out there beneath the same broken sky.
Both of them watched the heavens split open.
Neither yet knowing it was just the beginning.
The storm never fully left.
It shifted and rolled across the mountains, keeping the rebel camps on edge as night stretched thin.
Shina sat near the low fire, still feeling the strange hum of the storm in her bones. Mirra paced nearby, sharp-eyed, restless.
A whistle cut through the dark.
Not wind — a signal.
Mirra was on her feet instantly, a dagger in hand.
A cloaked figure approached, moving fast but careful, carrying a sealed parchment.
The messenger dropped to one knee and handed it over without a word before vanishing back into the dark.
Mirra cracked the seal and read.
Her face darkened.
"Well?" Shina asked, already knowing it wasn't good.
"They're moving prisoners," Mirra muttered. "And relics. Crown troops clearing temple vaults. Everything's heading toward the Great Temple. All of it."
Shina's stomach twisted.
"Why?"
"No one knows. But if they're pulling power from the old shrines, something's coming."
Before Shina could reply, another scout came racing down the ridge, panting.
"Sighting by the Wind Wyrm's shrine," he gasped. "Massive shape. Moving beneath the mountain."
Even hardened fighters around the fire tensed at the words.
Mirra straightened.
"It's begun."
Shina's hand found the faded scale in her pocket.
And somewhere inside, she already knew they wouldn't outrun what was coming.
Dawn crawled over the scorched peaks and mist-choked valleys of Vortrex, painting the mountains in shades of red and ash.
The Howling Pact moved through the southern trail, skirting the Fire Serpent's basin. Mazen kept his hood up, hand near the hilt of his dagger. The storm still churned faintly overhead.
The ground trembled every so often — just enough to remind them that something vast was breathing deep beneath the earth.
Ahead, Shadow raised a hand.
"Hold."
A flicker of movement. Figures moving through the mist.
Not Crown. Not their own.
For a breathless moment, Mazen's hand tightened on his weapon.
Across a narrow ridge above them, Shina's unit was moving through the early fog, weapons drawn, nerves tight. Mirra scowled at the sky.
"Too close," she hissed. "Keep low."
Shina's eyes swept the valley below, her pulse hitching.
Something familiar. A shadow. A shape.
It was gone before she could place it.
Then — a gust.
Unnatural. Sharp as a blade. It whipped between the two groups, blinding them, scattering dust and mist.
When it cleared, both sides had veered away, neither catching more than a glimpse of silhouettes.
Mazen paused, his chest tight, a strange ache twisting inside him.
Why did that feel…
He shook it off, following Shadow into the narrowing trail.
Shina stood alone for a moment longer, the wind curling around her like a restless thing. She clutched the faded scale in her hand.
Then turned and followed Mirra.
Fate wasn't done with them yet.