The sky was wrong.
Vaelrik stood on the edge of a crumbling plateau, the wind pulling at his cloak, thick with the scent of rain and blood. Above him, clouds twisted in unnatural patterns, not gray, but green, edged with flickers of violet light. Lightning tore through them, not in forks, but in spirals that looped back into the storm itself.
This was not weather.
This was a warning.
Skarn paced behind him, claws grinding against the stone, every step betraying the beast's tension. The Iron Howler did not fear battle, but it sensed something here that unsettled it. The plateau had no scent, no sound. Even the wind carried silence.
Valgrin remained still, coiled at the base of a jagged outcrop, molten eyes tracking the sky. Steam rose from the Drake's scales with every breath, but no flame came. It was waiting.
Vaelrik narrowed his eyes, watching the storm shift.
They had followed the pull of the Brand for two days, leaving Menagerie Hold behind, moving north into the highlands where no beast had ruled for centuries. The locals called it the Ruptured Sky, a place cursed by the gods or whatever force still dared to oppose the Writhe.
He did not believe in curses. He believed in crowns.
Lightning struck the far ridge with a sound like mountains breaking. The plateau shook beneath his feet, and from the heart of the storm, something moved.
A shape, vast and feathered, wings spread wide enough to darken the ground below. Its cry echoed through the valley, not a screech, but a sound deeper, like thunder given voice.
Vaelrik felt the Brand burn beneath his skin.
"There you are," he murmured.
Skarn growled, muscles coiling, eyes locked on the storm. Valgrin rose slowly, wings shifting, ready. Vaelrik stepped forward, lifting his hand, the Sovereign Brand glowing faint gold against the darkness.
The beast descended.
Feathers of storm and steel, talons long as spears, a crown of lightning etched into its brow by nature or something older. It did not land. It hovered, wind swirling beneath it, eyes like shards of the sky itself staring down.
Vaelrik did not flinch.
"I am Vaelrik," he said, voice clear, steady. "Sovereign. You will kneel or fall."
The beast did not answer.
It circled above, wings beating against the storm, each flap stirring the clouds into greater chaos. The air grew heavy. Raindrops fell like ash, cold and stinging, soaking Vaelrik's cloak. Thunder rolled over the plateau, shaking the stone, making the Writhe below tense.
Skarn bared its fangs. Valgrin hissed low, flame curling between its teeth, but not unleashed. Vaelrik felt them both, their unease, their readiness to strike.
The sky beast shrieked again, louder, its form becoming clear. A massive roc, feathers edged in metal, lightning dancing along its wingspan. Eyes bright with fury and challenge. Its name formed in Vaelrik's mind, unbidden, as the Brand flared.
Zephyrion.
A Writhe of sky and storm, once believed dead, its last sighting a century ago when it shattered a Thronelord's sky fortress and vanished into the clouds.
Now it returned.
The plateau cracked beneath Vaelrik's feet. He stepped forward, steady.
"I seek no alliance. Only crowns."
Zephyrion answered with a dive.
The wind howled, ripping trees from the ridge as the Writhe fell like a bolt of lightning, talons outstretched. Skarn lunged to meet it, but Vaelrik raised a hand.
"Stand down. This one is mine."
He leapt from the plateau as the storm came down.
...
The wind caught him like a hammer.
Vaelrik fell into the storm, cloak flaring, eyes locked on Zephyrion as it closed the distance. Lightning cracked around them, wild and blinding. The world vanished into rain, wind, and the roar of skyborne fury.
He reached for the Brand.
Power surged beneath his skin, raw and biting. The Vaulting stirred, sensing the challenge, opening faintly behind him, threads of gold and stormlight stretching outward.
Zephyrion struck.
Talons like spears raked toward him. Vaelrik twisted in the air, the Stonefang Maul forming around his arm, weightless in the storm. He swung, connecting with a jolt that sent him spinning.
The beast shrieked, not in pain, but in fury. It wheeled away, wings beating once, twice, sending shockwaves across the plateau. Vaelrik landed hard on a broken ridge, stone cracking beneath his boots. The Maul flickered, unstable in the storm's rage.
Zephyrion circled again.
Vaelrik stood, breathing hard, soaked and burning from within. The Brand pulsed, demanding a crown. Demanding victory.
He stepped forward.
Skarn howled from below, clawing at the earth, unable to reach him. Valgrin hissed, flames rising around its form, but neither moved. They obeyed.
Vaelrik raised the Maul again as Zephyrion dove once more.
He ran to meet it.
Their collision shook the sky. The Maul struck first, crashing into Zephyrion's beak, sparks and stormlight exploding. The beast staggered mid-flight, wings flaring wide to catch itself. Vaelrik did not let up.
He leapt, driving the Brand into Zephyrion's chest.
Light erupted.
The Vaulting tore open, golden and white, streaked with lightning. Chains of light lashed outward, not to bind, but to forge. Zephyrion screamed, its form buckling, feathers blazing with energy.
Vaelrik held firm, the Brand searing into the beast's hide.
"You are mine."
The storm broke.
Rain ceased. The sky cleared in an instant. Vaelrik dropped to one knee as Zephyrion crashed onto the plateau, wings folding, body still. The crown mark burned into its brow, bright as the sun.
The Vaulting shimmered around them, expanding. Where once there had been only stone and flame, now a sky opened within the realm. Vaelrik rose within it, surrounded by pillars of wind and cloud, the air alive with stormlight.
A weapon formed in his hand.
Not a hammer. Not fire. But a curved blade of light and air, its edge humming with power, the storm itself trapped within.
Edict Unlocked: Tempest Fang
Vaelrik turned the blade once, then twice, testing its weight. It moved like thought, cutting arcs through the air with no resistance.
Above him, Zephyrion stirred, smaller within the Vaulting, but no less fierce. Its eyes met his, no longer filled with fury, but with understanding.
The sky had crowned him.
Three Writhe. Three Edicts.
Vaelrik stepped from the Vaulting onto the plateau once more, the storm gone, the air quiet. Skarn waited, pacing. Valgrin watched in silence.
In the far distance, fires burned.
Not natural. Not wild.
Someone had watched the crowning.
Vaelrik tightened his grip on Tempest Fang.
"Let them come," he said quietly. "I am not done."