The storm came without warning.
One moment, the air above the plains was calm—wind brushing through tall silvergrass, the horizon burning with sunset gold. The next, the sky cracked open like glass, and the world itself seemed to shudder.
Lira felt it before she saw it. A sharp, metallic sting pulsed in her chest—where the mark was hidden beneath her tunic—and she froze mid-stride. The wind had gone still, unnaturally still, as if the plains were holding their breath.
"Not again," she whispered.
The mark flared once, a swirl of light the color of moonlit frost. Then the first drop fell. It wasn't rain. It was liquid silver.
It hit the grass with a hiss, burning small holes into the earth. All around her, the plains began to steam, silver droplets falling thicker and faster until it looked as though the heavens themselves were bleeding light.
Lira pulled her hood up and ran.
She didn't know what waited at the edge of the storm, only that she needed to get there before it swallowed everything. The last time the sky had bled, her village had vanished. Not burned, not crushed—simply gone, as if erased by a god's careless hand.
Her boots splashed through the strange metallic rain. Each drop that touched her skin seared like frostbite. The mark over her heart throbbed harder, guiding her—or warning her. She couldn't tell which.
Through the haze of silver mist, something took shape ahead: the ruins of the old watchtower, long since collapsed. She pushed herself faster. The ground trembled. Lightning forked sideways across the horizon, striking down in absolute silence.
Then she saw him.
A figure stood among the stones, cloaked, face hidden beneath a hood darker than shadow. The storm seemed to bend around him, as though refusing to touch.
Lira slowed, breath ragged. "You," she called. "You were at Ashvale, weren't you?"
The figure didn't move.
She drew the knife from her belt. It was nothing special—iron, dull-edged—but it felt solid in her hand, something real in a world that had begun to unravel.
"What do you want?"
His voice, when it came, was quiet. "To see who survived."
Something about that voice made her chest tighten. It wasn't cruel or cold—just ancient, tired, like stone worn by centuries of wind.
"The sky shouldn't bleed here," he said. "Not again. Not unless one of you carries it."
Lira's fingers twitched around the knife. "Carries what?"
"The shard."
The mark beneath her clothes burned hot, a sudden, unbearable pain. She gasped and stumbled back, clutching her chest.
The stranger finally lifted his head, and for an instant she glimpsed his eyes—glowing faintly, the same silver as the falling rain.
"You don't even know what you are," he murmured. "Then perhaps the gods are crueler than I thought."
Before she could speak, the ground split.
A line of blinding light tore through the plains, racing outward from where she stood. The tower stones shattered; the storm roared like a living thing. Lira was thrown backward, skidding across wet grass.
When she looked up, the man was gone.
Only the echo of his words remained, whispering in her skull. The shard.
The rain eased, but the world hadn't returned to normal. The grass was turning silver, hardening into something like metal. The sky glowed a pale, unnatural white. And where her mark had been, a faint pattern was spreading—a network of tiny veins glowing under her skin.
She could feel it now: power, raw and dangerous, thrumming through her veins. Not magic like the old tales described, gentle and bound by will, but something wild, hungry.
She had to move.
The capital lay two days north. If anyone could explain what was happening—if anyone still could—it would be the Magisters of the Ivory Spire. That was where her father had once served before he vanished, years ago, chasing whispers of the same phenomenon.
She tightened the strap of her satchel, turned toward the fading storm, and began walking.
By dawn, the world had changed again.
The plains were dead—every blade of grass frozen mid-bend, glinting like forged silver. When she stepped on them, they rang softly, like chimes.
The air itself hummed.
And then came the bodies.
Not human. Winged things, their forms twisted, faces blurred like half-formed dreams. Dozens of them scattered across the ground, burned where they fell.
She crouched beside one. The skin—or whatever covered it—was translucent, showing threads of light pulsing within.
She had seen sketches like these in her father's notes. Eidolon fragments.
"Impossible," she breathed. "They're myths."
Something stirred behind her.
A low, distorted sound, like a whisper echoing backward.
Lira spun, blade drawn—only to see one of the creatures dragging itself upright. Its eyes snapped open, two white flames that fixed on her with mindless hunger.
She barely had time to dodge. The creature lunged, clawed hands slicing through the air. It moved too fast. Her knife slashed across its arm; the wound closed instantly, light knitting the flesh together.
Panic surged, but instinct moved faster. The mark on her chest flared bright, and for a moment, the world slowed.
She felt every heartbeat, every drop of silver rain still hanging in the air. Energy gathered in her palm, drawn without thought. When she thrust her hand forward, a blast of pale light erupted—tearing through the creature's chest.
It screamed—a sound that wasn't sound—and dissolved into dust.
Silence followed.
Lira stared at her hand, trembling. The mark dimmed again, but its echo remained, like the pulse of something alive inside her.
What had she done?
She had no answers, only the growing certainty that whatever had begun with the storm was far from over.
By the time she reached the northern cliffs, the sun was setting again.
The sea below shimmered silver, the same cursed color as the rain. She followed the cliff path toward a cluster of lights—one of the outposts that guarded the borderlands.
A guard stepped out as she approached. "Traveler! State your name and purpose."
"Lira Ardent," she said, voice hoarse. "From the southern plains."
The guard hesitated. "The southern plains are—"
"Gone," she finished. "I know."
He stared at her for a long moment, then gestured her inside the wooden gate. "Captain will want to hear this."
The outpost was small, half a dozen tents and a watchfire. Soldiers moved with the uneasy stiffness of people who'd seen too much.
Inside the command tent, the captain—a woman with silver hair and eyes like chipped glass—studied Lira silently.
"You're the first to make it out of the south," the captain said finally. "Did you see the source?"
Lira hesitated. "I saw the sky break. I saw… someone standing in it. And these." She showed her hand. The faint light still shimmered beneath her skin.
The captain's expression changed—fear, quickly hidden.
"Get some rest," she said quietly. "We'll send word to the Spire at first light."
But as Lira turned to leave, she caught the woman whispering to her second-in-command:
"She's marked. The prophecy wasn't wrong.
Lira froze.
Outside, the wind had shifted again, carrying the smell of rain—not silver this time, but normal, human rain. Still, the sky above the sea pulsed faintly with veins of light, like cracks in glass that refused to heal.
Somewhere in those clouds, the stranger with silver eyes was watching. She could feel it.
And deep inside her chest, the mark answered, a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
The storm wasn't over. It had just found its vessel.
That night, Lira couldn't sleep.
The barracks were quiet, but the silence wasn't comforting—it was the silence of people pretending to rest, pretending not to dream of the sky tearing open again. Outside, the watchfire hissed in the wind, its smoke drifting toward the sea like a dark ribbon.
She lay awake on her cot, staring at the tent's canvas ceiling. The mark pulsed faintly beneath her skin, matching the rhythm of her heartbeat. It was like sharing her body with something that wasn't quite alive—but wasn't dead either.
Each pulse brought images—flashes of a place she didn't know. A vast white hall. A shattered throne. A voice, echoing: Return what was stolen.
She sat up sharply, gasping for breath. The vision faded, leaving only the whisper of the waves below.
Across the tent, a soldier stirred. "You all right?"
Lira forced a nod. "Bad dream."
He gave a tired half-smile. "Everyone's having them now. Since the rain." Then he turned over, muttering something she didn't catch.
She rubbed her arms, trying to chase the cold creeping under her skin. The shard—if that's what it was—was changing her, she could feel it. The power didn't sleep, and neither could she.
When dawn finally came, she stepped outside and found the captain already waiting by the cliff. A sealed letter rested in her hand.
"This will get you through the border," the captain said. "Head to the Ivory Spire. If the Magisters still live, they'll know what's happening."
Lira hesitated. "And if they don't?"
The woman's eyes flicked toward the horizon, where faint streaks of silver light still webbed the clouds. "Then the world ends faster than we thought."
Lira took the letter. The wind whipped her hair across her face, cold and sharp. For the first time, she felt the weight of what had begun—not just a storm, but a calling.
She looked north.
Beyond the cliffs lay the ruins of the old empire, the mountains where gods were said to sleep, and somewhere within them, the Ivory Spire—a place of truth, or madness.
Whatever waited there, she would face it.
Because the sky was bleeding again, and this time, it carried her name.