Before dawn, Caelum packed what little they owned: dried food, spare clothes, their father's scabbard. They kissed their sibling's brow where they lay, still fevered but alive. They promised to return.
At the village's outskirts, Mourne waited in a swirl of drifting snow. "Your world is dying," he said softly. "Storms like this will only worsen. If you wish to stop them, you must learn what the Shrine is — and what it guards."
Caelum hesitated, glancing back. Oren stood at the village gate, leaning on his spear. He raised a hand in silent farewell.
Turning forward, Caelum stepped into the forest's mist.
The days that followed were a blur of fog-choked paths and endless rain. The world beyond the village was worse than they'd ever known: forests where twisted, pale trees whispered in voices only half-heard; meadows drowned under lakes that reflected stars even at midday.
One night, lightning revealed a pale bridge of stone arching over a gorge — too ancient, too perfect to be natural. At its center stood a tall figure in a tattered cloak, face hidden by a cowl. Selka the Mistwalker.
"Another lost child of the storm," Selka murmured, voice like wind through reeds. "The threads tangle tighter."