Elara moved quickly through the forest, her senses on high alert as the wind began to pick up around her. The trees swayed ominously, their branches creaking under the pressure of the coming storm. She could feel the magic in the air—thick and heavy, like an invisible force pressing down on her chest. Whatever this storm was, it wasn't natural.
She followed the path Marcus had taken, her eyes scanning the ground for any signs of him. Her heart pounded with a mix of worry and frustration. She didn't know if Marcus had wandered off out of anger or if something else had drawn him away, but either way, she needed to find him before the storm hit in full force.
As she ventured deeper into the forest, the sky continued to darken, the clouds swirling in unnatural patterns above her. A crack of thunder echoed in the distance, and Elara quickened her pace. The wind tugged at her cloak, and the first drops of rain began to fall, cold and biting against her skin.
"Marcus!" she called out, her voice barely audible over the growing roar of the wind.
No response.
Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to stay calm. She couldn't let fear cloud her judgment—not now. Marcus was strong, capable. He wouldn't have gone far. But as the storm intensified, the sense of unease that had been gnawing at her grew stronger.
Suddenly, a flash of movement caught her eye—a figure up ahead, standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking the valley below. Elara's heart leaped as she recognized Marcus's silhouette, his dark cloak billowing in the wind.
"Marcus!" she called again, relief flooding through her as she hurried toward him.
But as she drew closer, she realized something was wrong. Marcus wasn't moving. He stood still, his gaze fixed on the valley below, his posture rigid. The wind whipped around him, but he didn't seem to notice.
Elara slowed her pace, her brow furrowing in concern. "Marcus, what are you doing?"
He didn't respond. His eyes remained locked on the storm swirling in the distance, his expression unreadable.
"Marcus?" Elara stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. "We need to get out of here. The storm—"
"I can feel it," Marcus said suddenly, his voice low and strained. "The magic… it's pulling at me."
Elara's heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"
Marcus finally turned to face her, and Elara was startled by the intensity in his eyes. "The storm. It's not just weather, Elara. It's… alive. It's calling to me."
Elara frowned, her worry deepening. "What are you talking about? We need to find shelter before—"
"No," Marcus interrupted, his voice rising. "You don't understand. This storm—it's connected to the artifact. I can feel it. It's drawing me in, like it's testing me."
Elara's pulse quickened. The storm was a test? A trial like the ones they had faced before?
"We don't have time for this," she said urgently, grabbing his arm. "We need to get back to the others. We can figure this out later."
But Marcus shook his head, his expression resolute. "No. This is my trial, Elara. I have to face it."
Elara stared at him, torn between fear and understanding. She knew what it was like to feel the pull of the magic, to sense something beyond explanation. But the storm was growing stronger by the minute, and the danger was real.
"Marcus, please," she said, her voice softer now. "We'll face it together. But not like this. Not out here in the open."
For a moment, Marcus hesitated, his eyes searching hers. Then, with a deep breath, he nodded.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's go."
Together, they turned and began to make their way back toward the camp, the storm rumbling ominously behind them.