Eira Thorne stood at the edge of the world, staring into the swirling mists below. The winds of Fogreach whipped through her hair, carrying the distant echoes of a world shattered. Beneath her, the island's rocky cliffs dropped away into the white nothingness of the rift—an endless chasm where the sea had once been. She clutched her staff, its smooth crystal tip glowing faintly in the twilight.
"You'll fall if you lean any further," a voice called behind her.
Eira didn't turn. She knew the voice well—gruff yet warm, like an old stone baking in the sun. Garruk Stonefist approached, his heavy boots crunching on frostbitten grass. His broad silhouette loomed beside her, a massive axe strapped across his back.
"I was listening," she said.
"To what?"
"The Veil."
Garruk sighed, a deep rumble that matched the distant thunder of the rifts. "You and your spirits. They ever talk back?"
"Sometimes." She closed her eyes, letting the cold wind wash over her. The Veil was thin here—where land and sky met the unknown. She could feel the gentle pull of the spirit world, a delicate thread just beyond her reach. "They're restless today."
"Can you blame them? World's falling apart."
Eira opened her eyes. "Not yet."
Garruk chuckled, his breath misting the air. "You always were the hopeful one."
Before she could respond, a shadow swept over them. Eira glanced up, squinting against the pale sky. An airship descended through the clouds, its sails billowing like the wings of a great bird. The hull bore the dark wood and silver filigree of the Stormchaser.
"Thorian's back," she said.
"About time." Garruk adjusted the leather straps on his bracers. "He better have something useful. I'm tired of waiting."
The Stormchaser settled into the clearing with a hiss of steam and the hum of its crystal engines. Ropes unfurled, and a lithe figure slid down, landing gracefully on the damp earth. Thorian Blacktide grinned, his coat billowing in the breeze. He swept a hand through his dark curls and gave a mock salute.
"Miss me?"
"Like a rash," Garruk muttered.
Thorian ignored him, striding forward with the confidence of a man who always had an escape plan. "Eira, my favorite Riftwalker. How goes the brooding?"
She smiled despite herself. "Did you find anything?"
He pulled a rolled parchment from his belt and handed it to her. "The ruins of Aetherspire. Word is, there's a cache of pre-Sundering artifacts. Crystals, tech, maybe even a working conduit."
Eira's fingers tightened around the parchment. "A conduit could stabilize the rifts."
"Or blow us all to hell," Garruk added.
Thorian spread his arms. "What's life without a little risk?"
A rustle in the underbrush drew their attention. Nyx Shadowfoot appeared, her small frame barely making a sound as she moved. She wore a cloak of patchwork shadows, her amber eyes sharp.
"You lot trying to get killed without me?" she asked, slipping into the circle.
"Not at all," Eira said. "We were just planning our next adventure."
"Good. I was getting bored."
Garruk crossed his arms. "We're not doing anything until we know what we're up against. If this is another one of Thorian's half-baked schemes—"
"Relax, old man," Thorian said. "I've got it all planned out. We get in, grab what we need, and get out before the ghosts know we're there."
Nyx smirked. "You've clearly never met a ghost."
Eira unrolled the map, tracing the faded lines with her fingertips. The ruins lay on a distant shard, one of the higher islands floating above the riftlands. Dangerous territory, but if the legends were true, it might hold the key to healing their world.
"We need to move quickly," she said. "The longer we wait, the more the rifts spread."
Garruk grunted. "Then let's get on with it."
Thorian's grin widened. "To the Stormchaser, then. Adventure awaits."
As they moved towards the airship, Eira felt the weight of the Veil settle around her. The spirits whispered, their voices threading through the wind. She didn't need to understand their words to know what they meant.
The Shattered Realm was calling. And they were its only hope.