Anora’s Arrival

The air was thick with grit and the sting of charged particles when Roam descended, its massive wings folding like storm-battered sails. Anora clung to its back, Dren seated behind her, his arms steadying her. They landed amidst the chaos of Ashvine—villagers rushing to reinforce barricades, Creche guiding others to safety.

“Why here?” Anora muttered as she dismounted, brushing dust from her tunic.

“It’s where we were sent,” Dren replied, scanning the chaos for some clue to their purpose.

Roam shifted beside them, its lenses focusing on a figure at the center of the storm’s preparation. “There,” it intoned, gesturing to Lyra, who was barking orders to those around her.

Anora hesitated, a sudden pang of uncertainty tightening her chest. She didn’t know this person—how was she supposed to tell her something so monumental? But as Roam’s quiet, steady presence urged her forward, she straightened and walked toward Lyra.

“Who are you?” Lyra snapped, eyeing Anora suspiciously.

“My name’s Anora,” she replied, voice rising to cut through the wind. “I don’t have time to explain everything, but…you need to know this.”

Lyra crossed her arms, her gaze sharp. “Try me.”

Anora took a breath. “The orb—you’ve been chosen to instruct it. It’s a wish, Lyra, but it’s not about you. It’s about what’s right for everyone: humans, Creche, and the planet. You need to give it direction before it’s too late.”

Before Lyra could respond, a bone-rattling roar shattered the moment. The storm, massive and alive, surged toward the center of the village, its speed unnatural and terrifying.