The wind had changed.
Bari stood on the edge of the caravan trail, eyes narrowed against the dust-swirled horizon. The old road stretched onward like a scar carved through the wilderness — cracked stone, fading paint, and the ancient skeletons of rusted signs swallowed by vines. Mountains loomed to the west. Somewhere far ahead, the Temple of the Storm God waited.
The others had started walking again. He heard their footsteps behind him — four in total, including his own. That meant three companions. A cohort, hastily assembled by the Spell's will.
Bari didn't remember them. He didn't remember himself either — not in the way a person should. He'd awoken under the eerie hum of the Nightmare Spell with no knowledge of the body he wore, no context for the scars on his palms or the callouses on his fingers. Just a whisper from within and a deep certainty: keep moving.
The Spell had thrown him into a broken world with nothing but names, instincts, and the cold burn of purpose. Bari… that was his name. That much he knew.
He adjusted the ragged strap across his chest and followed the others.
***
As they walked toward the forest for a hunt, the tall one led the way — lean, sharp-eyed, and wrapped in a grey cloak that whispered like dry leaves. He hadn't given his name, but the others called him Riven. Something about him screamed violence sheathed in ritual. A cold kind of confidence.
Beside him was a broad-shouldered woman with one arm wrapped in bandages that pulsed faintly with soul light. Her laugh came easy, her fists easier. She called herself Yaru, and she moved like she was trying to outdo the gods themselves. Her Echo — a spectral hawk made of whirling wind — circled high above, ever watchful.
The last was a quiet boy, younger than the rest, perhaps sixteen. Dren, they called him. He kept his hood low and his eyes lower. No Echo. No weapon. But something about him felt… steady. Like a hidden trap buried under loose gravel. Bari hadn't spoken to him much. The boy barely spoke at all.
As for Bari himself, they hadn't asked who he was. They either didn't care or already knew everything they needed to know. In the Nightmare, survival was all that mattered.
The hunt went smoothly. Bari used the walk to study the body he now inhabited, testing muscle and breath, cataloguing its strength and endurance. It was conditioned — far more than he'd expected.
***
The group walked until the sun became a smear of blood in the sky. Camp was made in the ruins of an old, dead house — nothing left but cracked walls, a rusted sign in an unknown language, and a dry skeleton slumped in a corner. The wind howled through broken glass. A storm teased the edge of the sky.
Riven took first watch. Yaru and Dren sat near the fire, chewing strips of dried meat from their hunt. Bari leaned against a cracked pillar, eyes half-closed, listening to the wind.
That's when it stirred.
His Aspect.
The words from the Spell still echoed in his mind:
"Scent of Wind – Strong-willed are the winds, and so are you. You are able to manipulate the winds around you to a minor degree"
He hadn't tested it yet. Hadn't dared. But now…
Bari lifted his hand and focused.
At first, nothing — just cold air and silence. Then, a shift. A subtle thread tugged in the air around him. He felt the wind's breath. Its hesitation. Like it was watching him.
He narrowed his eyes and moved his fingers slowly, coaxing it like a frightened animal.
A breeze swirled at his feet.
The campfire flickered.
Yaru glanced over. "You do that?"
Bari didn't answer directly. "Wind's changing."
She grunted, tossing another twig into the flames. "Figures. This road's cursed. Never liked wind that listens."
Dren spoke for the first time, his voice soft. "Storm God's watching."
Yaru scoffed. "Storm God don't care. Not out here."
Riven didn't turn, but his voice cut through the firelight. "He watches. Whether he acts is another matter."
Bari kept silent, but their words struck him like iron. The once-dead gods are alive.
The wind shifted again — but this time, it carried something else.
A whisper.
No words. No voice. Just pressure. A presence.
His runes pulsed faintly:
[Storm Kin]
[Strong Willed]
[Singularity]
[Traces of Divinity]
[Enhanced Perception]
The names echoed in his mind like scripture. Some he understood. Others were mysteries. But one burned more than the rest.
Traces of Divinity.
That one felt dangerous.
***
That night, the dreams came.
The road was gone. The mountains replaced by endless sky. He stood barefoot upon a storm cloud, his body flickering between shapes. Behind him loomed a massive presence — faceless, draped in wind and lightning.
It leaned close and whispered, not in sound, but in feeling:
You are strong-willed. Storm-blooded. Do not shame your heritage. Walk the path… or be swept away.
Bari awoke in sweat, gasping — the wind screaming around the ruined house as if mimicking the voice from his dream.
Across the fire, Dren was awake, watching him.
"You heard it too?" the boy asked.
Bari's breath was still ragged. "What do you mean?"
"Storm God's warning. About not being swept away." Dren's voice was low, almost reverent.
Bari frowned. "You had the same dream as I?"
"Dream? No. Vision. We are of the Storm God's temple — its worshipers and guardians. He blesses those with a strong connection, sends warnings and visions when our lives are on the line."
"So… something is about to happen?"
"Within the week," Dren said, certainty in his voice. "I'm sure of it."
Bari had no words. Barely a day in, and he was already meeting gods.