Lindarion's pulse quickened—not with fear, but recognition. The new layer of his power pulsed in answer, aligning, reacting to the approaching distortion.
Nysha drew her blades. "Lindarion… how close do we want to get to this thing?"
Lindarion leaned forward. "Close enough to see it."
The wyrm descended through the clouds—
and the storm appeared.
It wasn't made of thunder or rain.
It was a vortex of mangled silhouettes, shifting like torn shadows—figures screaming without mouths, dissolving and reforming in a spiraling torrent.
Nysha whispered, "Those aren't spirits."
"No," Kherael said grimly. "They're the remnants of something devoured."
Ashwing's claws dug into Lindarion's shoulder. "NO MORE DEVOURER-RELATED ANYTHING—PLEASE—"
Lindarion's eyes narrowed.
Inside the storm, something pulsed—a core of twisting pale light, struggling to stabilize.
Nysha gasped. "That's not natural. Something's inside it."
"There is," Lindarion said.
