The storm Seraphine had foretold broke as the companions descended the mountain paths of Caelora. Thunder rolled across the peaks like the drums of war, and lightning split the sky, illuminating the jagged terrain in stark, silver flashes. Rain lashed at their faces, turning the ancient stones beneath their boots into treacherous rivers of mud. Elara tightened her grip on the Shard of Aetherion, its subdued glow a fragile counterpoint to the tempest. Ahead, the path to the sanctum wound like a serpent through the cliffs, half-lost in the deluge.
"Stay close!" Corvin shouted over the howling wind, his voice barely audible. He led the way, his sword drawn as if expecting the storm itself to take form and strike. Lysander followed, clutching his satchel of scrolls to his chest, while Seraphine moved with eerie grace, her tattered robes untouched by the chaos around them.
