Kael Draven stood at the overgrown fringe of the village he'd once called home, the sun's dying embers bleeding across the horizon. A brittle wind whistled through skeletal trees, carrying the sharp tang of damp earth and long-cold ash. He drew in a slow breath, the memory of smoke and terror flooding back like a wave crashing against bare cliffs. His leather boots crunched over shattered stones and splintered wood as he advanced among the ruins.
Ahead, a lone chimney, blackened and crooked, pointed skyward like a monument to loss. Kael's jaw clenched. This had been the center of town, the heart of laughter and lamplight—until the beasts had come. His fingers itched toward the hilt of his hunting knife. The trees groaned. A twig snapped close by, and Kael whipped his gaze to the shadows. He tensed, fear—a relic from that night—stirring in his gut. Only the wind answered him.
His pulse steadied. He forced himself deeper into memory. Low, guttural growls had drifted from the forest edge, dismissed for lack of concern. Then the screams. Villagers sprinting from that same treeline, blood-slicked paws tearing flesh. He saw his mother's face, alight with torchflame, pleading, dragging him and his sister toward the cellar. He saw his father, axe raised, squared against a hulking shape. Then the beast crashed through the door. Metal screeched. Flesh tore. A sound like bones snapping filled the night, and Kael tumbled into darkness.
He knelt before the ruined chimney, fingers sifting through cold rubble. Broken bowls. A charred fragment of his sister's doll. Then his hand closed around something smooth. He drew out a wooden whistle, carved into a delicate bird. Elara's favorite. The simple curves of the wood made his chest tighten. He stared at it—her laughter echoing in his mind—and memory blurred with fresh tears.
He pressed the whistle against his lips, feeling its gentle grain. He wanted to summon her voice one last time, but no breath could bring her back. Instead, rage coiled in his chest, hot and furious.
"They'll pay," he muttered to the empty air. His voice cracked. "They'll all pay."
He tucked the whistle into his tunic, rose to his feet, and turned away. The path ahead was uncertain, but his purpose was clear: vengeance, and whatever lay beyond.
***
Torches flickered against damp stone as Kael entered the Beast Hunter sanctuary, hidden behind a torrent-swept waterfall. The roar of water blurred into the background hum of metal against stone. A forge spat embers. Somewhere, a giant cat-like creature hissed softly, nuzzling the leg of a dwarf tinkering with crossbow bolts.
Torin Ironclad sat at a rough-hewn table stained with oak-gall ink. His battered armor creaked as he rose. Sandy hair plastered to his brow. Steel-gray eyes cut to Kael with wary relief.
"You made it," Torin rasped. He offered a goblet of watered wine. Kael accepted it, the liquid lukewarm.
Ilyana Starfire emerged from the shadows, red hair ablaze even in the firelight. Emerald eyes flicked over Kael's armor, noting fresh scorch marks. "You look like hell," she said, voice crackling with concern and something sharper—hope. A grin tugged at her lips.
"I feel worse," Kael replied, swallowing the wine. Its bitterness was welcome.
Torin's fist thumped the table with a metallic clank. "Malakar's army gathers on the northern plains. Thousands of demon-soldiers, all under his banner."
A hush fell. Even the beasts stilled. Kael set his jaw. "How soon?"
"Fortnight," Torin said. "If we don't strike before they reach Dunwall and Everwood, those towns fall."
Ilyana paced. "Then we strike here and now. United, we can hold them back. Beast hunters, exiled knights, moon priestesses… we have more on our side than they know." She swept her gaze across the room. "We answer the call to arms."
A murmur rose, sharp as steel on stone. From the forge, Orrik Stonejaw's deep chuckle rumbled. "Finally, some fun." He hefted his massive wrench. The sanctuary brightened with sparks of anticipation.
"We need scouts," Torin said, nodding at Elira Dawnwing, perched on a crate like a bird ready to launch. She tilted her aviator goggles with a grin. "You'll ride ahead at dawn."
"I live for the thrill," she replied, stretching wings of cloak.
Fenric Ashen stepped from a shaft of torchlight, robes swishing. His red eyes gleamed. "Tell me where the shadows gather. I'll light their corners."
Nyssa Wildleaf slipped through the crowd, a fox padding at her heels. She knelt to whisper to the animal, which chattered and bounded away. She looked up, golden eyes bright. "My forest friends will warn of any approach." She smile was both innocent and fierce.
Ilyana held up her hand. "We've beasts, warriors, mages, tinkerers. But we lack one thing: hope. We stand together now—or fall divided. Who's with me?"
A roar rose. Kael felt a spark in his chest that wasn't just anger. Unity. The promise of something larger than his vendetta.
"I'm in," Kael said, voice low but unwavering. "For my family."
"Then let us show Malakar the price of underestimating us." Ilyana's laugh rang out—bright, ringing. "To victory, or to Valhalla itself!"
Clinks of raised goblets. A smattering of raucous cheers—"For Eldoria!"—echoed off stone. Somewhere a beast yowled triumphantly. The sanctuary thrummed with new life.
***
Silver moonlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Moon Temple, casting pale patterns on white marble. Lirael Moonshadow knelt before an alabaster statue of the Moon Goddess. Her silver-white hair pooled around her like liquid moonlight. She closed her eyes, palms pressed to her knees, drawing on every scrap of calm she possessed.
A hum rose in the temple—a soft, pulsing vibration that set the hairs on her arms trembling. The air shifted; cold and electric. Lirael's breath caught. She inhaled prayer, exhaled supplication.
The moonlight brightened, swirling across the chamber. Shades of pale blue flared behind her eyelids. A voice—no words, at first, only emotion: grief, terror, hope. Then shapes formed: fields aflame, a towering figure draped in shadows, and at its feet—Kael Draven, standing alone in the unknown.
Lirael gasped. "Please," she whispered, voice trembling. "Guide me."
The lights danced. Another flash revealed a circle of runes, glowing at the edge of a jungle. An ancient door, cracked and foreboding.
A distant scream—inhuman, shrill—echoed in her mind.
Lirael's chest tightened. The vision shattered into silver motes, raining down like snow. The temple fell silent. She remained on her knees, heart hammering.
When she dared to open her eyes, the statue's gaze was gentle, inscrutable. Lirael pressed a trembling hand to her chest. The prophecy weighed on her like a leaden cloak.
"My path leads to him," she murmured. "And through him, to this darkness."
She rose, robe whispering against marble. A new resolve kindled behind her luminous blue eyes, mingled with fear. She would seek Kael Draven, for within his vengeance lay the spark that could either save or doom them all.
A lone torch flickered. Somewhere in the temple, a howling wind rattled doors. Lirael crossed the marble floor. Every step echoed her decision: the Gathering Storm had begun.