Seraphen was not a welcoming world. The legends failed to mention that. As my ship, the Talon's Grasp, pierced the atmosphere, it was immediately seized by gale-force winds that howled with the fury of a caged god. This was a world of eternal storms, of jagged, wind-scoured mountains that clawed at a bruised purple sky. It was a fitting home for the Skyrunners, and a perfect vault for its greatest treasure.
"We're approaching the coordinates, Captain," crackled the voice of Kor, my first mate, a stoic Gravari whose furry exterior hid the sharpest navigator I'd ever known. "The atmospheric pressure is… volatile. The temple is located in what the old charts call the 'Eye of the Tempest.'"
"A little wind never hurt a Skyrunner, Kor," I said, a smirk on my face as I expertly wrestled with the controls. "Take us down."
The temple wasn't a building; it was a wound in the mountainside, an entrance carved by wind and faith into the heart of a colossal peak. We landed the Talon's Grasp on a precarious ledge, the ship groaning as the storm battered it. My crew—a hardened mix of Syndicate outcasts and Pact deserters—spilled out, weapons ready. They were the best because I paid the best, and they knew the price of failure was being left behind.
We moved into the temple, the roar of the storm outside giving way to a profound, humming silence within. The air was still, charged with an ancient energy. The walls were not carved with images of war or conquest, but with constellations and wind currents, a map of the Strand itself.
The path led us to a vast, circular chamber. In the center, floating a few feet above a stone plinth, was the Galeheart Prism. It was a crystal of impossible clarity, a teardrop of solidified starlight that pulsed with a gentle, rhythmic light. But there was no trap. No pressure plates, no laser grids, no ancient guardians. There was only the Prism, and the wind.
A soft, swirling breeze filled the chamber, a wind that did not buffet, but caressed. It whispered against the wind-chimes on my gear, but not with the chaotic song of the storm outside. This was a melody, a language.
"It's a puzzle," I breathed, my treasure hunter's instincts taking over. "A pattern. The wind… it's speaking."
For hours, my crew stood guard while I listened. I, who had commanded fleets and silenced rivals with a single, cold word, now sat in silence, letting the whispers of an ancient relic guide me. It was a test of patience, not of strength. The Prism was not to be taken; it was to be earned. Finally, I understood. I hummed a low, resonant note, a melody from a Skyrunner lullaby my mother had sung to me as a child.
The Prism pulsed brightly, and the wind in the chamber coalesced, forming a shimmering, ethereal image before me. It was a vision. I saw Seraphen not as it was, but as it had been: a world of gentle breezes and lush, floating islands, where my ancestors flew on their own wings, their laughter echoing in the sky. I saw the Prism at the heart of their society, not as a source of power, but as a source of balance, its energy calming the planet's chaotic atmosphere.
Then the vision shifted. I saw the Sundering. The sky tore open, the winds turned to razor blades, and the islands crumbled. I saw the last of the ancient Skyrunners, their wings broken, give their life force to the Prism, a final, desperate act to save their world from tearing itself apart. The Prism was not just a relic; it was a tomb. It was a life-support system for a dying world.
The vision faded, leaving me on my knees, the cold stone of the temple floor chilling me to the bone. The Prism pulsed softly, waiting. It would not stop me. The choice was mine. I could take it, become a living legend, the Skyrunner who could truly fly, and leave Seraphen to its final, stormy death. Or I could walk away, my hands empty, my reputation shattered, leaving the ghosts of my ancestors to their vigil.
My crew watched me, their faces a mixture of confusion and anticipation. They were waiting for the Voidreaver, the ruthless collector who always got her prize.
But the Voidreaver felt… small. A child chasing trinkets in a graveyard of gods.
I stood up, my legs unsteady, and looked at the Galeheart Prism, the soul of my people trapped in a crystal cage.
"We're leaving," I said, my voice hoarse. "There's nothing for us here."
Kor's stony face broke with a flicker of surprise, the first I'd seen in a decade. He simply nodded. As we walked out of the temple, back into the howling fury of the storm, I felt a strange lightness. My hoard felt a little less full, but for the first time in a hundred years, I felt the freedom my people were truly known for.
