The storm raged.

It was not the kind of storm that came and went, nor the kind that softened with time. It was a force older than memory, a living tempest that had coiled itself around the Spire for centuries, gnashing at its steel bones with fangs of wind and lightning. It never ceased, never disappeared—only roared, an unrelenting beast that swallowed the horizon in a maelstrom of rage.

Kieran Voss, a 20 year old, promising but rebellious Stormguard recruit , who had a lean body but atheltic, dark tousled hair, storm-grey eyes, had a faint lightning-shaped scar on his forearm from gauntlet overuse, stood at the edge of the northern balcony, boots braced against the cold metal as the wind howled through the gaps in the Spire's armor.

His gauntlet-clad fingers dug into the rusted railing, its edges corroded by years of battering rain. Below him, the wasteland stretched into darkness, a dead world beyond the Spire's reach, burned by a war so ancient that even the elders had ceased to speak of it.

And yet, for all its ruin, something out there felt scary. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

The storm lashed at him, his coat snapping like a war banner, rain pelting against his skin. He should have gone inside. The wind was strong enough to throw a man to his death, and the lightning wasn't merciful, leaping like a silver beast from cloud to cloud. But Kieran remained where he was, his breath steady, his gaze fixed on the writhing horizon. There had been movement beyond the storm's curtain—just for a moment, he saw something—but now, there was only shadow, only the shifting haze of rain and mist.

A trick of the light, perhaps. Or perhaps not.

He exhaled, forcing himself to step back. He had been warned before. The storm deceives, Kieran. It shows what is not there. A thousand men had looked into the abyss beyond the Spire, and a thousand men had seen different things. Some saw ghosts of the past, some saw salvation, others saw nothing at all. And those who stared for too long…

Well. The Council did not permit long stares.

The balcony door creaked open behind him, and heavy boots struck metal. Kieran didn't turn—he knew the sound of those footsteps, the way they carried themselves.

"Strake's looking for you."

Kieran clenched his jaw. Elias Sorne.

Of course, Elias would be the one to find him. The bastard had a habit of appearing where he was least wanted. Kieran turned only slightly, enough to see the medic standing in the doorway. The dim interior light slightly revealing his face, making the scar across his cheek look like a second mouth.

"You ignoring orders now?" Elias asked.

"I needed air."

"You needed an excuse to be reckless." Elias stepped forward, and the storm caught the edge of his coat, whipping it violently behind him. He didn't flinch. "You're too close to the edge."

Kieran lifted a brow. "Afraid I'll throw myself off?"

"I'd be more worried about the storm pulling you in."

A bolt of lightning split the sky, bright enough to turn night into day for the span of a single breath. Kieran's pulse thundered in his ears, but he held his ground. The Spire stood firm, as it always had. And yet—

He turned his gaze back to the storm, and something shifted. Not in the air, not in the sky—but deep inside his chest. A feeling. 

Elias sighed. "Come inside, Voss. If Strake finds you up here, he'll skin you alive."

Kieran didn't answer right away. He stood there for a moment longer, letting the wind scream around him, the storm's rage pressing against his skin like a second heartbeat. He had the distinct sensation that it was watching him.

Finally, he turned. "I'm coming."

He cast one last glance at the raging abyss beyond the Spire, then stepped back into the cold embrace of the city.

And somewhere in the storm, something moved once more.

"Alright, you wretched excuses for Stormguards," Strake's voice sliced through the air, "today, we find out who among you has a spine and who should start polishing boots instead."

"I vote for boot polishing," Elias muttered beside Kieran. "Less electrocution, more dignity."

"Shut it," Kieran hissed, though he couldn't deny the appeal.

The gauntlets strapped to their forearms vibrated, a constant reminder that channeling the storm's energy wasn't just a skill—it was a gamble. One wrong move and the power would fry them from the inside out. Some poor idiot named Alden had learned that the hard way last week. The scorch marks were still fresh.

"Voss!" Strake barked. "You're up. Try not to embarrass yourself."

Kieran stepped forward, slipping into a ready stance as another recruit squared off against him. The gauntlet released, energy coiling at his fingertips. No pressure. Just another day of surviving Captain Strake's personal torture chamber.

He snapped his wrist, letting in the energy spark, and smirked. "Let's dance."

The wind raged through the Spire's upper corridors, howling like a wounded animal. It wasn't the storm—it was the hollow spaces in the steel, the emptiness between the walls that made the sound twist and stretch, that made it sound unnatural.

Kieran Voss wasn't supposed to be here.

He told himself that three times as he crept through the shadowed hallway, boots silent against the reinforced metal floor. His training should have ended hours ago, but sleep had been impossible. Something in the storm called to him.

The recruit barracks were on the lower levels, where the walls didn't tremble under the sky's rage. But up here, just beneath the spire's peak, he could feel it.

And then he heard it.

A voice, that floated through the wind like a whisper breathed straight into his skull.

"Kieran…"

His lungs locked. His gauntleted fingers twitched at his sides. The hall was empty—it had to be empty.

The city was safe. The Wraithborn had never breached the storm, never come close enough for their horrors to become more than a tale told to frighten the weak. They were myths in the eyes of those who never had to fight them.

But Kieran wasn't weak, and he knew better.

"Kieran…"

His breath came in sharp with quick bursts. The voice was not a whisper, but a sound made by something that had never needed to whisper before. Something that didn't understand how human voices worked.

His feet moved before his brain caught up. He turned down the hall very fast, shoulders squared, gauntlet vibrating with energy, ready to ignite—

Nothing.

A dead-end. A steel wall that lit under the emergency lights.

And then—

Skreeeehhhhh.

Not a word. Not a voice. A scraping, rattling breath. Kieran's stomach clenched. He didn't blink—couldn't blink.

The lights flickered.

For half a second, the hallway vanished into darkness.

When the glow returned, the wall in front of him was different. Not metal. Not solid.

A face.

No—a helmet.

A gleaming, nightmarish helmet with no eyes, only slits where something shifted behind the steel. Armor black as the void, edges warped and melted like the metal had once been liquid.

A Wraithborn.

Inside the Spire.

Impossible.

It stood there—like it had always been there. Like the storm had vomited it out of nothingness, birthed it from the dark.

A heartbeat.

Then another.

The thing tilted its head.

And Kieran ran.

He didn't think. Didn't breathe. His body took over, launching him backward, his boots slamming against the ground as he pivoted, sprinting down the hall toward the stairwell.

The lights stuttered again.

In the darkness, the whisper returned.

"You see now."

He didn't stop running.

Kieran's breath tore through his lungs as he ascended the stairwell, his boots slamming against the steel steps. The walls trembled with the storm's distant rage, and his mind screamed at him to stop, to turn back, to not go higher—but he didn't listen.

He couldn't.

That thing—the Wraithborn—had been inside the Spire. Had stood right in front of him, helmet gleaming like a void swallowing all light. That wasn't possible.

Yet, he had seen it.

And it had seen him.

The whisper still replayed in his thoughts like a phantom limb. "You see now."

He threw his shoulder into the heavy metal door at the top of the stairwell, bursting onto the open-air observation deck.

The wind hit him like a hammer.

The storm above was a swirling, writhing thing, an ocean of black clouds that cracked with veins of electric blue. The air burned with static, making the hairs on his arms rise beneath his gauntlet.

He staggered forward, gripping the railing, his breath raw in his throat.

From up here, the entire city stretched below him—the maze of iron streets, the towering structures built against the Spire's base, the distant sight of torchlights from the night patrols. Beyond it all, the storm wall rose like a living titan, a coiling vortex of lightning and shadow encircling the world.

And then—

The storm moved.

Not the usual shifting of clouds or the chaotic winds. No—it parted.

Just for an instant.

Kieran was shocked and petrified.

Beyond the storm wall, where there should have been only darkness and death, something like a faint beacon gleamed.

His heart pounded against his ribs. It was far, impossibly far, but it was there—beyond the wasteland, beyond the endless storm, beyond everything they had been told.

The Spire's ruling council had always claimed that the storm was the last barrier between life and oblivion. That nothing could exist outside of it. That they were alone.

But the light—that light was proof of a lie.

Another whisper slid through the wind but this one was different.

Ancient. Hollow. Calling.

"Find the way."

Kieran stumbled back from the railing his heart pounding faster than ever. The storm snapped shut, the gap sealing as if it had never been there. The wind howled louder, the energy in the air surging through his bones.

The whisper was gone.

But the memory wasn't.

There was something beyond the storm.

And now that Kieran had seen it, he couldn't unsee it.

The air inside the Council chamber was too still—like the moment before a storm breaks.

Kieran stood rigid at the center of the circular chamber, the metallic floor cold beneath his boots. A hollow pit twisted in his gut as he faced the six figures seated before him. They appeared like statues, their faces half-lit by the blue storm-light filtering through the tall, narrow windows.

At the head of the semicircle sat Lord Castian Vale, High Arbiter of the Spire. His presence alone was pressing against Kieran's spine. Sharp-eyed and silver-haired, Castian had ruled the city for longer than most had been alive. His voice, when it came, was measured, quiet—all the more terrifying for its restraint.

"You left your barracks in the dead of night," he said. "You ascended the Spire's highest watchpoint without clearance. And you nearly discharged your gauntlet's energy in the process. Explain."

Kieran clenched his fists behind his back. His knuckles itched to do something—anything—to break the suffocating tension.

But what could he say? That he had seen a Wraithborn inside the Spire? That the storm had parted, revealing something beyond? That voices had whispered through the wind, calling to him?

No.

Because if he did, they would either brand him a liar—or worse, a lunatic.

"I couldn't sleep," he said instead, keeping his voice steady. "I went up to clear my head."

Castian watched him. He didn't blink.

A silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant, low rumble of the storm outside.

"You were seen," another voice cut in. Councilor Elira Saren. Unlike Castian, she wasn't old, nor did she try to bury her disdain. "The Stormguard should be disciplined, not reckless. Yet we find one of our newest recruits wandering the highest watchtower in the middle of the night, staring at the storm like a fool."

Kieran gritted his teeth.

"I wasn't—"

"—Wasn't what?" Elira leaned forward. Her dark eyes evident, waiting for him to slip. "Go on. Tell us."

A test. A trap.

He forced himself to stay still. "I wasn't staring at the storm. I was thinking about my next rotation."

A half-truth. Not a lie, not entirely. But enough.

Elira scoffed. Castian, however, only tilted his head slightly.

"You're an intelligent recruit, Kieran," the High Arbiter said. "But intelligence without discipline is dangerous. You understand that, don't you?"

Kieran nodded. The right response. The expected response. But his body tensed as Castian continued:

"The Spire is all that remains. We are the last stronghold of humanity. The storm protects us. The Wraithborn will never stop hunting us. And the laws we uphold are not burdens—they are what keep us alive."

Kieran swallowed hard. He had heard this speech a hundred times before. But now, after what he had seen—what he knew—it felt like chains clung to his throat.

"You're dismissed," Castian said, his voice still smooth, still patient. But Kieran wasn't fooled. They were watching him now.

And if he made one wrong move, he wouldn't be standing in this chamber ever again.