From Chapter 1: Heart of the Storm

They say the storm was born of union.

After Akadi, Mother of Air, joined with Ubtao, Father of Earth and Beasts, beneath the roots of the world tree, she grew heavy with the burden of creation.

In a dream, she beheld an egg drifting among the clouds—its shell split by lightning, bursting forth in wings.

So sudden, so thunderous, that she woke to the crack of bark and the sky’s roar.

Thus, the storm took flight, claiming dominion over the heavens.

And wherever the children of the sky would wander, she followed.

Circling above, they rode the thermal currents—vast, silvered shapes against a clear sky, momentarily blotting out the sun.

A lone huntsman squinted his eyes, following their trajectory. His perspiration long since dried over the clay that covered his shorn head and body. He had tracked his quarry for many moons, remaining motionless for hours so as not to be detected.

A quiver strapped to his back, loaded with arrows, their tips steeped in foul death. In his hands rested a longbow of strange alloys. Repelling the very notion of life’s radiance. The man was sparsely dressed, wearing nothing but a pair of sandals and a loincloth. A single, sturdy mithril ring coiled around his upper arm in a spiral, whispering of the status he once held.

His name? Forgotten.

His son? Fading.

His people? Starving.

And She? Silent in the face of their suffering.

The lone man had denied himself water, save for a few drops to wet his cracked lips. He stood on the brink of collapse, reciting a prayer to the divine he had denounced, prompted by delirium. A tremor wracked his body. He swayed. Stumbled—

A large hand steadied his shoulder, stopping him from splitting his chin open. It belonged to a pale man, clad in the garments of kings, with peculiar brown eyes—as if peering into a well and seeing something fiery refracting in its depths.

Something in the ivory man’s touch filled the hunter with tremendous strength, washing away his exhaustion and leaving in its stead the bitter drops of rancour. The air shimmered with heat as a deep voice reached the hunter’s ear.

Words designed to enthrall, seduce, and deceive. The stranger had done so before—and he would do so again.

In the guise of a saviour. Sharing in their customs, tasting their food, drinking their wine, curing their ailments—a civilisation unmatched since the fall of Netheril.

Their joy turned to ash upon his tongue—a giant among maggots, far beneath his notice. No humanity stirred in him; only hellfire’s fury at the sight of such blatant disorder.

“When you are called to enter the maze of souls… and lay her body at the foot of that gilded throne—then, at long last, the Creator will know you.

“The one whose roar binds the tribes beneath a single spear… The one who scourges the outsiders and summons the long-denied rains.

“You already know this path. You’ve always known it.

“All that remains… is to reach for that flickering flame— and snuff it out.

“And when it is done— when the storm has quieted— I will show you what no mortal was meant to learn: the secret of eternity… and how even death may be undone.

“Tell me… what is the suffering of the many, weighed against the life of one?

“What is one life… against your son’s?

“…There it is.

“No cruelty. No doubt. Only… necessity.

“It was always inevitable.”

A necrotic power flickered to life in the hunter’s hands, finding the razor-sharp fletching by touch.

“Nok.” The stranger sneered as he released the man’s shoulder.

Maintaining tension, the hunter placed the arrow on the rest; tendrils of the void awakened.

“Aim.”

The limbs screamed under the strain as the huntsman drew the string back, a low hum building in the air. 

“Steady.”

An answering chuff came from somewhere to their left. It stalked past, brushing its powerful shoulder and bristling fur against its master’s hip—a testament to their shared bond. An invaluable companion: a sabre-toothed Kreshnar. Once, they could hear each other’s thoughts.

Its coat blended seamlessly with the desert: cream-white, with black spots and stripes along its flanks.

As large and powerful as a lion, it was equipped with canines like daggers—long enough to sink into the vertebrae of its prey. Unlike mundane felines, it was a creature of innate magic; its shriek could induce terror in all who heard it.

It's solid green eyes, devoid of pupils, missing nothing. Then a red seam appeared, running from snout to forehead—and in anticipation of the bloodshed to come, its face peeled away, like a corpse-rose unfurling, to reveal an oozing, bleached skull, with tongue, connective tissue, and eyes still intact.

Snarling.

“Lose.”

With a flash of eldritch power—Te Exsecro!—the arrow tore free, dragging the light with it like a comet in ascent— a split-second vacuum, then sound erupted outward in a great, seismic ring.

Halsin pretended not to notice Tempest’s approach—or the conversation she’d just had with Karlach. But that didn’t make his surprise any less genuine when he looked up to find her standing over him.

He paused what he was doing, showing her that she had his full attention. Curious now. For once, he had to tilt his head up to meet someone’s gaze. She stood with one hip cocked, arms crossed, lips pursed in thought. Tempest truly was a vision in her battle regalia.

“I realize I forgot to thank you... for sticking up for me, like you did.”

Halsin inclined his head in acknowledgment, feeling the tips of his ears grow warm.

And I thought I’d done a thorough job covering my tracks...

“Saw that, did you?” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll admit, I didn’t anticipate that my hand would show so readily.”

Tempest raised a hand, shaking her head with a small, amused smile—eyes sparkling. “It was... pretty great to see. You were pretty great to see, actually. Gods, I’ve never seen anyone put my uncle in his place like that. He’ll sleep with one eye open from now on, I’ll wager.”

She placed a hand on his forearm, giving it an affectionate squeeze. Halsin arched a brow, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“Anytime,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Tempest pivoted on the balls of her feet, ready to leave—still holding his arm—but hesitated, uncertain. “I’m not comfortable with owing people favors,” she admitted. “And I am indebted to you. So... name it.”

Halsin’s smile turned decidedly roguish, his gaze heating. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll come up with something... given time.”

Tempest blinked, searching his face—then realization struck. Her mouth fell open slightly as she looked down and confirmed that yes, her hand was still very much clasped around his arm. She released him immediately, holding her hands aloft as if burned, stammering something nonsensical, backing up and away from him. Sidling, not touching anything or anyone else. Muttering, “Shit... shit... shit!” before running upstairs.

Halsin remained in place, reining in the beast within by pressing the stem of his pipe to his lips. He lit the bowl, puffing experimentally, then reclined in his chair with a pleased hum.

He intended to spend the last hours of the night scrying through the hearth-fire.

The dire bear within him purred in anticipation.