They left Mirror Vale under clouds that churned like boiling ink. The air was heavy with static, and every few miles the wind carried faint echoes of thunder—though no storm appeared overhead.
"Someone's calling the storm," Lyra murmured. "They want to be found."
"Or avoided," Kaelen muttered. "I've read about this place. Stormwright's Isle. Used to be a stronghold of sky-mages. Until it sank during the Aetherquake."
"How does an island in the sky sink?" Aeren asked.
Bryn shrugged. "Bad real estate."
The journey to the Isle took them over broken bridges and crumbling cliff paths, until they reached a silver archway embedded in a cliff face. Beyond it was nothing but open air.
Elira raised a brow. "We're supposed to jump into that?"
"Technically," Kaelen said, "you fall. And then the Isle catches you."
"Oh, great. So it's like trusting a sky-trap."
Still, they jumped—because of course they did. And after the gut-wrenching fall, the world caught them: wind cradled them gently and set them down on solid, floating stone. Before them was Stormwright's Isle, wrapped in clouds and flickering with electric energy.
The sky never stopped rumbling.
As they stepped forward, figures emerged. Elemental sentries—beings of cloud, wind, and lightning. One stepped aside to reveal a young man with pale hair, eyes like storm glass, and a mark shaped like a jagged spiral on his chest.
"I am Zephren, Keeper of Stormwright."
Aeren looked him over. "Let me guess. You're another bearer?"
"I am. But I will not join you unless you prove yourselves worthy."
Elira groaned. "Is there anyone in this world who doesn't make us pass some weird magical obstacle course?"
Zephren gestured to the temple behind him. "Within lies the Trial of Winds. Complete it, and I will aid you. Fail, and the Isle will reject you."
"Let me guess," Bryn muttered. "The floor falls out, the walls close in, and something tries to electrocute us."
Zephren smiled. "You catch on quickly."
Inside the temple, the trial began immediately. Wind tunnels roared, lightning crackled across floating platforms, and puzzles changed with every gust.
Bryn carried them across gaps with summoned stone. Kaelen deflected bursts of wind with mirrored blades. Lyra read ancient inscriptions to guide the path. Elira and Aeren stood together at the final gate, which bore a massive circular lock pulsing with skyfire.
Aeren reached out. His mark responded—not with fire, but with energy that mimicked the storm. The blade at his side shimmered with new light.
"I can feel it," he whispered. "It's like… my fire wants to become something else."
Elira rested her hand over his. "Then let it."
Together, they pushed the energy into the gate. The storm above the Isle roared in unison, then… calmed.
The doors opened.
Zephren stood waiting.
"You are worthy."
Aeren blinked. "Just like that?"
Zephren smirked. "What, no electrocution? Disappointed?"
"Maybe a little."
The storm-keeper joined their circle that night as another bearer, and over dinner of roasted root beasts and slightly burnt flatbread (courtesy of Aeren), they talked.
Zephren was quiet but insightful, and Elira didn't trust his perfect hair.
"Five bearers," Kaelen said. "That means one more. And then… whatever the Herald has planned will begin."
A distant rumble of thunder echoed again.
But this time, it wasn't natural.
Far below the floating Isle, in the realm of shadows, the Herald finished his incantation.
"The flame is waking," he whispered. "But so is the dark."